


You Will Be Found

by dancemagic



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Captivity, Did I Mention Angst?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Military, Team as Family, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 12:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancemagic/pseuds/dancemagic
Summary: A member of Bravo is killed on a mission, and it tears the team apart. When they discover there’s been a horrible mistake and their brother is actually alive, can they come back together in time to save their friend? And will he ever be the same?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story includes the long term sexual abuse/rape of one of our main characters. Though it isn't graphic, it's clearly happening and is a very prominent part of the story. If you need more info before continuing, feel free to shoot me an email.

Have you ever felt like nobody was there?  
Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere?  
Have you ever felt like you could disappear?  
Like you could fall and no one would hear?  
“You Will Be Found” - _Dear Evan Hansen_

**********

“Shut the fuck up, Brock.”

Trent looks up in time to see Brock stumble back from Sonny as if he’s been physically pushed, tripping over an open equipment case on the floor in the process and nearly face planting to the trailer’s dingy brown carpet. 

A bright pink flush creeps up Brock’s neck to his face, and there’s a beat where Trent thinks he may actually punch the other man. Instead, he turns with hunched shoulders and leaves the room, letting out a quiet “Screw you, Sonny” on his way out the door.

Cerberus stays put just long enough to vibrate with a low, menacing snarl before stalking over to his favorite tennis ball, picking it up and following his handler out of their quarters.

“Was that really necessary?” Ray looks up from the paperback he’s reading in the old double wide’s corner hammock. Trying to read, anyway. Trent’s pretty sure he hasn’t turned the page for at least the last 15 minutes. After all, it’s hard to concentrate when your whole team is squabbling incessantly around you.

“The man needs to know he’s on the wrong side here, Ray. Captain America and Iron Man would absolutely clean the floor with Batman and Superman. It’s not even a contest.”

“Who cares??” Ray booms at Sonny incredulously. “Seriously, grow up!” 

The room is stunned into quiet before Ray lowers his voice. “I swear, some days I feel like I’m working with children. Jameelah and RJ have more intelligent conversations, and RJ can’t even manage to put the right shoe on each foot.”

Trent can’t help but crack a grin as he hears Clay chuckle from where he’s perched on the table in front of him. “Sonny still uses Velcro,” the younger man says in an exaggerated whisper. 

Sonny just glares and growls and turns back to the TV.

Trent isn’t sure he’s ever been more desperate to get the go ahead for a mission. He loves his brothers on Bravo team dearly, but if they sit around waiting any longer, he’s afraid they’re going to start causing actual bodily harm to one another.

They’re in Thailand to take down a sex trafficking operation controlled by a government leader suspected of fomenting terror abroad. Intelligence shows he’s using the profits from the “business” to strengthen his position and recruit followers. 

They expected this to be a quick spin up, three or four days max, but they’ve been here for two weeks already. And they haven’t done a damn thing. According to Mandy, it’s all about finding the “right window of opportunity” to go in. And that window hasn’t presented itself yet. 

So they wait.

The stress isn’t helped by the fact that this is a joint op with Charlie team. Jason has been on edge since they got here, his dislike and distrust of Beau Fuller on open display. 

That uneasiness has trickled down through both teams. Nerves are frayed and raw, and the simmering tension in the air is palpable.

Fortunately, the two teams are bunking in separate trailers and they won’t actually be together for the bulk of the op. Trent will take the win where he can get it.

The mission itself is actually fairly run-of-the-mill. Not risk free, but nearly. 

Almost by definition, everything DEVGRU does is dangerous, but relatively speaking, this op should be a piece of cake. A pretty straightforward in and out while the “bad guys” are off site. Charlie team will take down the perpetrators, while Bravo rescues the trafficking victims.

And that rescue can’t come soon enough. The men of Bravo team are exhausted mentally and physically. They’ve been run ragged lately, and they’re looking forward to getting the job done and going home.

Trent turns his attention back to Clay, palpating his knee. 

“Does it hurt all the time or only when you put weight on it?”

“Mostly with weight,” Clay replies sheepishly, wincing a little. “Kind of throbby the rest of the time.”

The younger man sounds embarrassed, and rightly so. He tweaked his knee the previous day while killing time by sprinting laps with Cerberus, insisting he could outrun the hair missile. 

He couldn’t, of course.

But that didn’t stop him from trying until he ate dirt in a dramatic tangle of arms and legs, twisting his knee in the process.

The stupidity from Clay, of all people, hammers home to Trent how important it is to keep a group like this – full of Alpha-male, type-A, highly-driven operators – busy and productive. Sitting around isn’t doing anyone any good.

They _really, really_ need to get going on this mission before someone ends up permanently maimed or dead.

But even more, they just need a break. A break from the monotony of waiting. From the tension of the job. 

And from each other. 

They live in each other’s pockets, and sometimes it just gets to be too much. 

“I’m okay, really,” Clay insists with a confidence Trent isn’t sure he believes. 

“I’m not hauling his heavy ass back here if he goes down while we’re out there,” Sonny huffs from the couch. 

“No one asked you to, Sonny!” Clay shoots back. 

“Fair warning, that’s all,” the Texan snarks. “I’m sure those sickos would be more than happy to add a pretty, blue-eyed, blonde American stud such as yourself to their collection of merchandise.”

“I’m _fine_,” Clay snaps.

“Enough!” Ray shouts, just as the door opens and Jason sticks his head in. 

“We’re a go,” the team leader tells them, voice full of relief. “Jock up. We leave in 20.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ray is out of the hammock and out the door in seconds. 

Jason makes his way over to Trent and Clay.

“What’s the verdict?” he nods to Clay’s right leg.

“It’s swollen, but I don’t think he did any serious damage.” 

“He okay to go?” 

“Yes,” Clay cuts in. 

“Wasn’t asking you, Usain Bolt,” Jason smiles, with a rough bump to the kid’s shoulder. 

Trent knows Clay’s speed is going to be hampered at least a little bit by the injury. But they’re on hostage rescue, not the assault team. There shouldn’t be any real need for speed. Besides, the team is already in enough turmoil as it is without the drama that would come along with benching one of them. 

Jason and Clay are both looking at Trent expectantly.

“Yeah, I think he’s good,” he says, a bit reluctantly.

He hopes it’s a decision he doesn’t come to regret.


	2. Chapter 2

Brock always feels guilty when he has to leave Cerberus behind. They don’t need him for the op, and Brock can tell the exact moment he realizes he isn’t going. The guys are all getting ready, and instead of pulling out the dog’s equipment, Brock reluctantly opens the door to his kennel. 

Cerberus looks at him with doleful, slightly-betrayed eyes before snuffling, lowering his head and sulking around the ready room with his tail between his legs. If it didn’t send a pang to Brock’s heart, it would actually be kind of cute.

“Poor guy, is Brock being mean to you?” Clay sympathizes as he crouches down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re just as tired of waiting around as the rest of us, aren’t you?” 

Cerberus yips and flops down on the man’s feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth in contentment. 

Brock rolls his eyes. “Not cool, man. Stop trying to suck up to my dog when you know I’m on his shit list.”

“Tell you what,” Clay laughs as he rubs Cerberus’s belly, ignoring Brock entirely, “when we get back, we’ll have an epic game of fetch before it’s time to go home. How’s that sound?”

“Nope,” Trent cuts in from where he’s standing at the table checking his ammo. “After yesterday, I’m not trusting you to do anything the least bit physical with him. You can read him a bedtime story while you ice and elevate. That’s it.”

Brock laughs at that mental image before finally calling Cerberus over to the kennel. The dog goes willingly, but doesn’t make eye contact with his handler. 

Brock focuses his attention on getting ready. Since the house they’re hitting is near a fairly populated city, they’re trying to be a bit discreet. That means civilian clothes and light equipment. He swings his pack onto his shoulder, secures his weapon and heads out the door with the others.

The van ride is tense. Not because of the op itself – it should be easy - but because everyone is anxious for it to be over. It’s been a long couple of weeks. The last few months have felt long, actually. Brock wants nothing more than to wrap the mission and get a good night’s sleep before the trip back to Virginia Beach.

They park just down the street from the target building and wait to hear from Charlie team. Surveillance has shown that the traffickers regularly make supply runs a couple towns over, and that seems to be what they’re doing now. Charlie is going to intercept them once they’re clear of the city, and that’s when Bravo will go in to rescue the victims.

They know there are always two men left to guard the two-story house, and they’re right where they expect them to be. Ray and Clay line up their shots while they wait for the word from Charlie team. 

And they all settle in.

Not even a full minute goes by before Sonny’s voice drawls through their comms from the second van. “You know, the Thai people love elephants. They’re a national symbol.”

He doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular or seeking any kind of response, so no one gives him one.

“Poachers keep killin’ ‘em though, so now there are more in captivity than in the wild.” 

Trent offers a disinterested “Hmmm.” 

“Think that’s pretty sad,” Sonny continues. “Cause elephants, they’re majestic creatures.”

Ray sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Their trunks are mighty impressive. They can smell better than a bloodhound.”

Brock bites his tongue. Everything Sonny does or says is getting on his nerves right now. He loves the Texan like a brother, but they have very little in common outside of the Navy, and they’ve never been as close as they both are to other members of the team. It’s a relationship that works because it has to, for their own sanity and safety. Brock truly would give his life for Sonny, and he knows the other man would do the same for him in a heartbeat. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a pain in the ass a good bit of the time. Fortunately, Brock has a famously laid-back temperament. 

“…and they can actually use it as a snorkel. Able to cross a river completely submerged, as long as that trunk is poking up.” 

“You ever get tired of listening to your own voice, Sonny?” Jason asks with a hint of annoyance. Brock chuckles, knowing their team leader is as tightly wound as the rest of them.

“Saw that on the Discovery Channel,” Sonny finishes proudly, as if Jason never said a word.

And blessed silence takes hold for a few minutes. 

When they finally get the call to go, it couldn’t have come soon enough. Ray and Clay effortlessly take their shots, the guards go down and everyone piles out of the vans into the humid night. 

The house is actually pretty nice. It reminds Brock of something you’d find on an old southern plantation, complete with neatly arranged wooden beams and a wraparound porch. It looks out of place for the area, and he figures it could qualify as a mansion relative to the other dwellings nearby. 

But any superficial beauty is tarnished by the awful secrets he knows it keeps. The traffickers use it as their base of operations – managing transactions, coordinating schedules, that kind of thing. But they also use it as a staging point for newly acquired “merchandise” before the victims are sold and sent elsewhere. They expect there to be at least 7 or 8 hostages inside, but they know there could be more.

Sonny takes point entering the house and comes to an unexpected and rather abrupt halt as the others follow in behind him. “What the…Hey, Boss, you need to see this,” he says, all lightness gone now that he’s in work mode. 

Brock sees what stopped him a moment later. There are weapons lining the hallway. And there are a lot of them. He can see several different types of firearms piled on top of wooden crates. 

Jason scans the scene and then keys his radio. “HAVOC, this is Bravo 1. There’s some heavy duty weaponry in the hallway here on the first floor. More than you’d expect for a few guards. Did we have any indication they’ve been arms dealing?” 

Davis answers quickly, “Negative, Bravo 1. Nothing we’re aware of.”

“HAVOC, this is 2,” Ray chimes in from where he’s continued down the hallway. “There are also weapons near the back door, and what appears to be explosive material. They definitely have something else going on.”

“Copy, Bravo 2. If they’ve been making bombs and dealing weapons, they’ve been quiet about it.” 

“How do you want us to proceed?” Jason asks.

“Leave them for now,” Blackburn chimes in. “Priority is rescuing the victims. But see what you can get photos of on your way out. We’ll send someone in once the hostages are clear.”

“Copy, HAVOC, we’re Charlie Mike,” Jason responds before turning back to his men. “Ray and Trent, with me upstairs. Sonny, Clay, Brock - take downstairs.”

There are three bedrooms downstairs, so Brock takes the first door, splitting off from Sonny and Clay as they continue down the hall. 

The elaborately decorated room turns out to hold two young girls, chained by their ankles to the posts of a large bed. They can’t be much older than about 13 or 14, and Brock sees the terror in their eyes grow when they see his weapon. 

“It’s okay,” he says calmly, moving forward slowly with his hands out to show he isn’t a threat. “I’m here to help. To get you out of here.” 

He knows they likely don’t speak English, but he continues to talk to them quietly as he pulls the bolt cutters from his pack and starts to work on their chains.

Once they’re free, the smaller of the two girls lunges at him and gives him a tight hug, clearly understanding - despite the language barrier - that he’s there to help. He allows himself a moment to return the embrace. He loves this part of his job. Helping people. Knowing that he’s making a difference. 

He knows some of the other guys get their high from the thrill of the fight – bullets flying, chasing tangos and kicking down doors. But for Brock, this is what it’s all about. The small, quiet moments where he’s privileged enough to save a life. Or to make someone feel safe, on what is usually the worst day they’ve ever experienced. It makes all the stupid shit they’ve been bickering and complaining about recently seem so petty. 

The men have all started to radio in the status of the victims they’ve found, so Brock does the same before leading the girls down the hallway and out the front door. 

For the next several minutes, more members of Bravo team emerge with victims. They truly run the gamut – old, young, male, female. Some seem to be local while others are clearly from elsewhere. Brock feels anger surge through his veins when he sees the youngest hiding behind Jason’s leg – a small black-haired boy with big eyes who only appears to be about 8. 

Jason sends Ray back inside to get photos of the weaponry while Trent starts doing medical checks and the others reassure the victims that their nightmares are over. 

Lisa’s voice crackles over the radio. “Bravo 1, this is HAVOC. Be advised, one of the traffickers that Charlie team took down is indicating that they have more men, and that they’re hiding out in your area.”

“Think it’s credible?” Jason asks, eyes quickly scanning the property.

“No way of knowing at this point. Could just be trying to save his own ass. But I suggest you finish things up quickly so you don’t have to find out.”

“Roger that, we’re nearly done here.”

“Where’s Spenser?” Sonny asks, and Brock realizes Clay is the only one who has yet to emerge from the house. 

Jason keys his radio. “Bravo 6, this is 1. Status update? Planning to join us outside anytime soon?”

There’s a pause before Clay’s voice comes through. “This is 6. I have four males, late teens or early twenties. They’re tied down pretty good. Could use some assistance to speed this along if anyone’s free.” 

“Copy, sending Bravo 3 your way,” Jason replies, giving Sonny a nudge on the shoulder to send him back into the house.

The young girl Brock rescued is tightly gripping him by the waist, shaking like a leaf. In the bright moonlight, he can see tears shining on her cheeks. He rubs her back, tells her they’ll be leaving soon, that everything is okay now. More than anything, he just wants to make her feel safe. He wishes they’d brought Cerberus along after all. The canine has a special touch with vulnerable victims, particularly children. He always has. Sometimes Brock thinks he missed his calling and should have been a therapy dog instead.

The shots come out of nowhere.

One minute, Bravo team is waiting for Clay, Sonny and Ray to finish up inside so they can head home, and the next, gunfire fills the air and their victims start going down around them. Brock is stunned as the grip around his waist abruptly loosens and the young girl sinks to the ground, an ugly crimson stain spreading across her chest, her eyes already vacant. It takes a fraction of a second for his shocked brain to catch up and then he, Jason and Trent are returning fire as they quickly guide everyone who is still standing to cover behind a short wall that runs along the front of the property.

“Troops in contact, troops in contact,” Jason calls through the radio. 

“Say again your last, Bravo 1,” Blackburn’s voice filters through under the sound of the firefight.

“We’re taking fire!”

At least three of their victims are down, likely dead, and several others have been hit. Brock pushes that from his mind as he and his team work to take out the attackers. If they don’t get the situation under control, they won’t be rescuing anyone tonight.

“Contact in the rear!” Ray shouts through the radio. “We’re taking fire from the back door!” 

“Brock, go assist in the back,” Jason shouts, as he and Trent continue to engage with the attackers in the front.

Brock waits for them to lay cover fire before working his way around the perimeter of the building instead of through it, hoping to sneak up on the shooters and take them by surprise. 

It was the right decision, as he finds three men firing toward the house, completely unaware of his presence. He takes a steadying breath, aims and starts taking them out. 

But he’s too late. 

There’s a sudden, deafening explosion from inside the house and then all hell breaks loose. 

It feels like slow motion - like an eternity - but Brock knows it happens in mere seconds. That one explosion is the first domino that falls, igniting another and then another and then another.

Before he has time to do anything, the whole house is lit up like a torch, windows blowing out, flames licking up the walls, and thick smoke escaping into the night.

But Brock doesn’t feel the heatwave that blasts his way. 

All he can feel is his heart thumping wildly in his chest and a tight, clenched pit of dread in his stomach as horror seeps into every inch of his body.

Ray. Sonny. Clay.

His brothers are still in that building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Seven minutes before the first explosion**, Ray has delivered his rescued hostages – two middle-aged women – to Trent’s capable hands for a once over before heading back inside to check out the stash of weapons. 

He spends a few minutes taking a meticulous photo inventory of what he finds, and it’s a lot. Firearms, grenades, knives, bomb-making materials, and even land mines. It’s hard to believe there’s this much artillery here and there wasn’t a single mention of it in the target package. Seems like a pretty massive oversight on the CIA’s part. But Ray learned long ago that he can’t concern himself with that. Tip of the spear and all. He goes where he’s told to go and does what he’s told to do. And he isn’t supposed to question why the orders come down the way they do. It is what it is. If he dwells on it too much, it will just frustrate him. 

He makes his way down the hall and he’s nearing the back door when Jason’s tense but controlled voice comes over the radio declaring that they’re taking contact in the front. Ray’s adrenaline spikes and he’s turning to head back to the front door to assist when a round whizzes right past his head with a ‘zing.’ He immediately falls into a defensive crouch, pivoting back toward the rear door and raising his rifle just in time to take out the armed man coming through it. 

But the shots keep coming in through the now-open back door. He radios in for backup and returns fire. It’s not a good angle, and he can’t manage a clear shot of the attackers outside. 

Ray knows he’s in a perilous situation. He’s in a hallway lined with explosive material and shots are raining down around him. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. 

He suddenly sees one of the men spin and sink to the ground and he knows it wasn’t his shot. Which means his team has made it to the back of the house to help. 

But his moment of relief is short lived. Just as he sees the second and then third man go down in a haze of pink mist, he hears a sizzling crackle coming from behind him. One of the crates has been hit, and it’s shooting out sparks. 

He’s in a 5,000 square foot wooden powder keg and a match has been lit. 

He’s out of time.

Ray puts every ounce of energy he has into running for the back door, and he feels the explosion behind him just as he reaches the threshold, followed by a roar of sound a fraction of a second later. He’s blown out of the doorway as much as he willingly jumps out of it, and he takes a hard landing on his side, the impact reverberating through his body. 

A searing pain shocks through his left arm and the wind is knocked completely from his lungs. As he struggles to breathe, the heavy, suffocating heat he feels is overwhelming. Afraid that he might actually be on fire, he scrambles around frantically on the ground, using his good arm to push himself into a roll. 

Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear muffled, faraway shouting. 

As it gets closer, he realizes it’s his name he’s hearing repeated over and over again. He turns his head toward the voice to see a figure running his way.

“Ray! Can you hear me? Ray!”

It’s Brock, and he looks and sounds like he’s scared shitless.

“You’re good, you’re good,” the younger man shouts reassuringly when he reaches him. “We need to move.”

Brock grips him by the waist and heaves him from the ground. Ray can’t contain a growled shout as the rough treatment jostles his injured arm, but they don’t have time to be careful, explosions still coming from the house and flames bursting out with each one.

They run to a safe distance, turn back toward the building and try to catch their breath. Brock’s eyes are huge as he turns to Ray. 

“Sonny and Clay,” the younger man pants. “Did they get out?”

**********

**Five minutes before the first explosion**, Jason sends Sonny back inside to help Clay. He finds him in the middle room of the first floor. He’s crouched down, working on the chains of the third of four male hostages. 

“You about ready to get out of here, Blondie? I have a date with a beer and a bed I’d like to get to.” 

Clay chuckles. “These chains are no joke, man. I’m almost done,” he says as he successfully frees the third man. The two who have already been released are sitting quietly on the floor, looking both relieved and cautious as they watch Sonny approach.

“What can I do?”

“Want to get them out of here while I finish up with this one?” Clay asks. “That one has a pretty gnarly cut on his head Trent should take a look at.”

“Roger that,” Sonny says before signaling for the men to get up to follow him. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Clay says, turning back to the remaining hostage.

The shots start ringing out as they approach the front of the house. Sonny hears it just before Jason comes over the radio. He pushes the three men down to the floor and takes up a hunched position just inside the door. 

By the time he gets situated, Jason and Trent are engaging the shooters from behind a wall at the front of the property and Brock has moved out of sight, around the building to assist Ray in the back. Sonny joins in the firefight, and as the attackers move closer to the building, they conveniently come directly into his view. It takes five shots and they all seem to be down.

It seems like the threat is neutralized, at least for the moment, so Sonny turns back to the three men he retrieved from Clay’s room.

“Let’s go, Let’s go!” he waves them out the door and past the bodies that are sprawled outside the entrance. A surge of anger rushes through him that this easy mission has gone so horribly wrong. 

They’ve just barely cleared the porch when the ground shakes beneath his feet at the same time an almighty wave of heat, noise and debris explodes out the front door from where he had just been standing. Sonny instinctively pushes the men forward and finds himself on his knees in the dirt. There are multiple blasts in quick succession, and when he realizes it’s getting worse, not better, he scrambles forward, encouraging the men to move farther away from the building.

When his mind catches up with what’s happening, the first thing Sonny hears is Jason’s voice to his left, frantic now. 

“HAVOC, this is 1. There’s been an explosion. Bravo 2, 5, 6, status check.”

**********

**Two minutes before the first explosion**, Clay hears Jason’s voice come through their comms about gunfire, shortly followed by Ray’s. He’s nearly done freeing the last hostage, so he tries to speed things up so he can get outside to help his team. 

Heavy footsteps hurry in through the door behind him.

“I’m almost done,” he says curtly without turning around, a little annoyed Sonny came back for him instead of heading outside to assist with the fighting. 

A second later the barrel of a gun crashes into the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the floor, stunned. Before he has time to process what’s happening, two men are on top of him and he’s in a hand to hand fight for his life. 

Clay is an excellent fighter, but he has the disadvantage here – these two men took him completely by surprise and have the dominant position above him. He reaches for his handgun, but it’s quickly knocked from his grasp. He scrabbles for his rifle as it’s pulled away from him, nearly strangling him on its strap as it’s yanked over his head. 

He manages to roll to his back and deliver an uppercut to one of the attackers, resulting in a sickening crunch. The man goes down hard, moaning on the carpet. 

He barely has a moment of satisfaction before the second man slams Clay’s own rifle down across his face. His head explodes into a cacophony of light, sound and disorientation. It’s probably the hardest hit he’s ever taken in his life; like nothing he’s ever experienced before. 

He manages to hang onto consciousness, but barely. Bursts of light flash across his vision and he instinctively clenches his eyes tightly shut. He gags on the thick metallic taste of blood in his mouth and manages to turn his head to the side just enough to spit it out. At least a couple teeth come out with it, making his stomach roil, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that right now.

The remaining attacker starts dragging him by his legs toward the hallway. He knows he needs to reach for his radio to call for help, but his fingers won’t cooperate. It’s like his brain has detached itself from his body and won’t deliver the simplest of commands. He's pretty sure his earpiece has been ripped from his ear anyway. 

He’s aware enough to know he’s being dragged directly across the hallway to what he knows is a large closet. He can hear the firefight around him, coming from both ends of the house. Each shot is like a dagger being shoved into his rattled brain. He flops to the side in his struggle to get away and sees a blurred form in the distance that he can recognize as one of his teammates, crouched in a shooting stance. He thinks its Ray, but try as he might, he can’t force a sound out of his throat. And then the moment is gone.

Shadows are creeping into his vision and his head feels like it weighs 50 pounds – like his brain has grown too large for his skull. He tries to stay alert enough to track where he’s being taken. Confusion pours in when he realizes he’s being pulled down a set of stairs. He was on the first floor and the building doesn’t have a basement. 

He shouldn’t be able to go down.

**********

**Twenty seconds after the first explosion**, the house is fully engulfed in flames. The fire rages as blasts continue to go off inside, and it feels like they’re in the middle of a fireworks show. 

Jason can’t believe this is happening.

“HAVOC, this is 1. There’s been an explosion,” he yells frantically. But right now his only concern is for his men. “Bravo 2, 5, 6, status check.”

Nothing.

“Bravo 2, 5, 6, status check,” he repeats urgently.

There’s a crackle before the radio comes alive. “This is 5. I have 2 with me. Coming to you now.”

Relief surges through him to learn that Brock and Ray are okay. At least okay enough to be up and moving from the back of the house.

“Bravo 6, come in.”

There’s no reply. 

“Clay!” Sonny yells from where he’s now picked himself up off the ground, glass and debris pouring off of him in a wave, and turned back to the inferno behind him. 

“Bravo 6, do you copy?” Jason’s panic builds as he runs to the door. He’s aware of Sonny running around the side of the house, shouting Clay’s name. Flames fill the entire doorway, making it impossible to enter. 

“Bravo 1, this is HAVOC,” Blackburn’s tense voice comes through the radio. “Sitrep?”

“Spenser…” is all he manages to get out, terrified dread crashing over him. 

He grips his hair and spins around, finding himself at a complete loss, unsure what to do. It’s not a feeling he’s used to. There’s no decision he can make right now to make this situation better.

“Clay, _come in_,” he pleads into his radio, knowing he isn’t going to get a reply, but desperate to get one anyway. 

“Jay!” The shout comes from the side of the building, where Ray is coming straight to him, supported by Brock. “Sonny and Spenser?”

“Sonny’s good. Clay…” he trails off, looking to the house and unable to say the words.

“Oh, God,” Brock lets out on a shocked exhale, just as Sonny comes running up from behind him, having made a complete circuit of the perimeter of the building. 

“There’s no way in,” the Texan pants out. “Whole thing is lit up.”

“Bravo 1, give me an update,” Blackburn sounds angry now, but it’s colored with deep concern and alarm. 

Jason finally keys his radio. “Target building is fully engulfed. Bravo 6 is inside. Hold.”

“What do we do, Boss?” Brock asks desperately.

“I need some help over here,” Trent interrupts, from where he’s kneeling on the ground next to one of the hostages who is bleeding out into the dirt. Jason can see the panic in the medic’s eyes as he looks to the building before focusing his attention back on the patient. 

Brock rushes over to help Trent and Jason’s eyes land on Sonny. The man is heaving in breaths, and he looks deathly pale in the light of the flames. He’s looking at Jason like he thinks he holds all the answers. Can make all of this okay.

He doesn’t. And he can’t. But he does know, deep down, that there’s no chance that anyone is alive inside.

Ray comes closer, and Jason sees for the first time that he’s covered in filth, his hair and clothing singed. And he’s holding his arm awkwardly to his side.

The reality of what’s happened – _what it means_ – slams into Jason, and his breath gets caught in his throat. Flashes of familiar faces spin through his mind – Nate smirking, Adam laughing – and they just keep coming. Memories of all the brothers he’s lost. And of Clay.

“I can’t,” he gasps at his best friend with mounting desperation. “Ray, I can’t do this again. _Not again_.”

“Jay…” Ray steps forward, a haunted look on his face. 

_No_. He isn’t ready to accept it yet. “Did anyone hear him? On the radio? Anything?”

“He would have called in, brother,” Ray says softly, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. “If he’d been able to. If he’d had a chance, he would have.”

“No, there has to be…”

“Jace, _stop_. He’s gone.”

No one says anything for a beat, and all Jason can hear is the roar coming from the house and pained cries coming from the hostages.

“We need to get out of here,” Trent says firmly. “These people need help. And we need to get away from this building.”

“We aren’t leaving him here,” Sonny says emphatically, and Jason sees tears running down his cheeks now, disappearing into his beard.

“He’s not here, Sonny,” Ray replies sadly.

“We’re not leaving him behind!”

“Jason, what the hell is going on?” Blackburn demands through the radio. 

“Guys, we need to go now,” Trent says in a steady, insistent voice, but Jason can see the tremor in his hands belying his measured calm. “These people can still be saved.” 

Jason knows he needs to step up, to lead. It’s his job.

“We’ll come back,” he says with defeated resignation. “We'll come back and we’ll bring him home.”

He looks to each of his teammates in turn. This is a decision they all deserve to have a say in. Trent and Brock give sad nods. Ray clenches his eyes shut and inclines his head. And Sonny stares into Jason’s soul before looking at the hostages scattered around them and giving a painfully tight nod, tears continuing to stream down his face.

Jason clears his throat and keys his radio, determined not to let his voice waver. “HAVOC, this is Bravo 1. We’ve lost Bravo 6. Spenser is dead.”

**********

**Three minutes after Jason declares him dead**, Clay is being dragged through what he realizes now is an underground tunnel they didn’t know existed. He continues to fight his attacker, but he’s getting nowhere, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He doesn’t think he can hold onto consciousness for much longer. Every time his eyes close, it’s harder to open them again. 

He finally decides to give in to the inevitable. It goes against every instinct he has, but he stops struggling so he can save the little strength that remains for whatever comes next.

If there’s one thing he knows with absolute certainty, it’s that his team will come for him. 

He just needs to hang on until they do.


	4. Chapter 4

Lisa tries not to think about Clay. 

After the op goes south and they get the shocking news about his death, it’s all hands on deck in the trailers serving as their temporary base. She’s trained to push the bad away and focus on the job, and that’s exactly what she’s determined to do. 

The team exfils with the rescued victims just before local authorities and emergency responders arrive at the target building. Lisa stays in touch with Jason and Trent to help arrange medical transport for the injured hostages and coordinate debriefs for the others while Blackburn works to reroute Charlie team to the burnt out building to clean up the mess left behind. A select number of top Thai government officials knew they were in country and were fully briefed on the mission, but the knowledge stopped there. Locals on the ground have now been left with a blown out house and corpses on the lawn, so there’s definitely going to be some explaining to do.

But try as she might, she can’t budge Clay from the forefront of her mind. 

And she can’t push away the guilt she feels like a physical force, weighing down on her shoulders. Being the eyes and ears for the team when they’re in the field has always been a heavy responsibility. But now that responsibility has increased five times over. This is the part of being an officer that terrified her, made her doubt whether she was cut out for it. She’s making decisions that literally put the team’s lives – her _friends’_ lives – in danger. 

_That’s what makes it matter. Why an officer’s different_.

Clays own words haunt her. Her worst nightmare has come true.

Clay Spenser was such a special person. His growth with the team – from cocky, annoying rookie to accomplished, dependable operator - was only the start of what she was sure would be an exceptional career.

And more importantly, he was a close personal friend. Loyal, generous and vibrant. A friend she loved and valued and cared for deeply.

It’s a devastating loss. 

Clay was only with DEVGRU for a few years, but he became so wholly entrenched in the Bravo family Lisa has a hard time imagining the team functioning without him. She was in OCS during the Manila bombing and its aftermath, so she didn’t experience firsthand the months he wasn’t around. But her calls with Sonny were enough to make crystal clear that a gaping hole had been left where Clay belonged, his absence felt like a physical wound. 

She can’t believe they got him back from all of that just to lose him now.

When the guys finally make it back to base and trickle into the room, they look like they’ve come straight off the battlefield. Ray seems to have taken the brunt, covered in filth and clearly injured, hunched uncomfortably around his arm. Trent, who is soaked in dark, drying blood, is fussing at him, but Bravo 2 is having none of it.

Lisa's eyes are drawn to Sonny, who’s giving Ray a run for his money in the dirty department. She doesn’t know yet exactly what happened out there, but he was obviously close to the action. Lisa feels her stomach lurch, realizing that it could just as easily have been Sonny who didn’t make it back with the rest of the team. That’s something she absolutely can’t think about, or it will destroy her.

She tries to make eye contact with him, but he avoids her gaze. 

Cerberus lets out a whine from where he’s standing in the doorway with a tennis ball in his mouth. There’s no way of knowing if he’s looking for Clay or if he’s on edge because of the tension in the air, but a pang goes straight through Lisa’s heart. Brock sinks to the floor and calls him over, pulling the dog into his lap before burying his face in his neck. 

Jason plants himself on a folding chair and stares into space, not moving an inch. To see the normally kinetic man stone still makes the hair on her arms stand on end.

They all look shell shocked. They’re oddly calm, which isn’t what she expected while anticipating their arrival. It’s like they’re lost, unsure of what they’re supposed to do now.

“I’m so sorry,” she says weakly, compelled to break the suffocating silence. 

No one says anything. 

Sonny’s eyes flick up to her face briefly, but then move away just as quickly. She wonders if he blames her. 

None of them are displaying any emotion at all. They’re brick walls, completely closed off from her and from each other. 

Time stretches on. 

Lisa is just about to break the silence again when Blackburn enters the room, and the look on his face tells them everything they need to know. Any tiny little sliver of hope they may have still been holding onto is completely washed away.

“Charlie team has recovered his remains.” 

“You’re sure?” Brock is the first of them to speak since they entered the room 20 minutes earlier. 

“Of course he’s sure!” Sonny barks out. “We were there!”

“We’ll do the standard DNA testing, but yes. There were two sets of remains in the room you all identified, exactly where you said they’d be.” 

“Testing? Meaning…meaning there’s nothing left to identify him by?” 

Blackburn looks at Brock for a beat too long. “Meaning that, yes.” 

“Dammit, Brock,” Sonny growls. “You were there. You saw...of course there’s nothing left.”

Lisa squeezes her eyes tightly shut as the room falls into an uncomfortable quiet again. If there’s a small comfort to be found here, it’s that it seems Clay’s death was quick, probably instantaneous and painless. He didn’t have time to try to leave the room and likely didn’t even realize what was happening. 

“He had no business being out there,” Sonny is suddenly on his feet, directing his anger at Trent. “He was injured. I told you it was a bad idea.” 

“Sonny, there’s no way his knee made any difference. He didn’t have a chance, and you know it. Don’t try to put this on me.”

It’s like a dam is suddenly broken and the tension in the room ramps up immediately.

“We shouldn’t have been there at all!” Ray bursts out, spinning toward Lisa and Blackburn. “How about you stop sending us places on bad and incomplete intel. Are you trying to get us all killed?”

That hurts. Lisa knows it’s the anger and grief talking and she shouldn’t take it personally, but it still feels like a dagger through her chest. Her eyes slip to Sonny again, but he’s looking at the ground.

“Is that really what you think?” Blackburn asks. 

“How did we not know there were bombs on site? And how many tangos there were?” Ray continues his rant. “What kind of intelligence is that? You’re telling me this is the best the US government has to offer? We would have made a completely different plan. Brought Cerberus along.” He finishes on a pained gasp, hunching over as he grabs his shoulder.

“Let me look at your damn arm!” Trent insists, approaching his teammate.

“We should have taken the op more seriously,” Jason joins the fray. “No easy day. No easy mission. We were complacent. _I was complacent._ I should have seen the bigger picture.”

“Knock it off, Jason,” Ray dismisses as he swats Trent’s hands away. “This isn’t about you.”

“STOP IT!”

Brock’s shout silences everyone, his chest heaving as he sucks in air like he’s dying. 

“Clay wouldn’t want this!” he continues desperately. “Us…ripping each other apart. He wouldn’t want any of it. So stop!” 

He abruptly deflates, like saying his piece sucked all the energy he had right out of him. 

“He deserves better,” he finishes quietly.

Everyone else deflates in turn, eyes full of pain, shame and sorrow.

“Try to get some rest,” Blackburn clears his throat. “We head home at 0700.”

**********

The flight back to Virginia Beach is quiet. There’s no reminiscing or celebrating Clay. It’s too fresh for that. There are just long faces and an air of devastation and heartbreak. 

The flag-draped box buckled down in the middle of the plane is a reminder of their failure, and a giant question mark of what’s to come. 

Lisa busies herself working on reports and their debrief packets, but her eyes keep finding Sonny. He took an Ambien from her earlier, but she doesn’t think his eyes have closed for longer than a second at a time in the hours they’ve been in the air. The best word she can use to describe him is _empty_. Completely emotionless. She tries to coax him into some form of conversation, and while he doesn’t ignore her, he’s mostly just blank. They’ve tried to be discreet about their relationship at work, but this isn’t that. This is detachment. A complete lack of interest or engagement.

She’s actually kind of surprised he gets in her car with her when they land. He’s quiet the whole way to her apartment, and he almost immediately disappears into the shower when they arrive. 

He’s in there for about five minutes when she hears the first thump. Then a growl followed by a crash. And then another. She cautiously enters the humid, steam-filled bathroom to find everything that was in the shower outside of it – shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream – all scattered around the floor. A bottle of body wash is cracked and slowly leaking a red puddle onto the tiles. It reminds her of blood.

Sonny’s punching the wall of the shower, letting out a belly-deep grunt with each impact. It makes her cringe. 

“Sonny,” she entreats softly, and then more firmly when she gets no reaction, “Sonny, stop.” 

He doesn’t even seem to know she’s there, so she fully pulls back the curtain and joins him in the small space, fully clothed. The water is scalding hot and she reaches past his hip to turn it off.

“Stop, please,” she tries again. “Stop!”

He finally pulls away from the wall, clawing his hands over his face and up into his hair, knuckles bloody and his grip so tight she’s afraid the force is actually going to rip strands out. 

He suddenly can’t seem to stand still, circling and pacing around her in the small space like a caged animal. The stall becomes completely consumed by his frantic breathing, and she realizes with a shock he isn’t just angry or upset, he’s working himself into a full blown panic. Like nothing she’s seen from him before. 

“Okay, okay, take a breath,” she says comfortingly, with what she hopes is a convincing mask of calm. “Slowly. In and out.”

But his panic only rises.

“Sonny!” she shouts, grabbing him by the arm. “Hey, come on!” 

He finally looks at her. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen such a depth of absolute sadness in anyone’s eyes before. His hitched breaths increase, he chokes on a couple stilted gasps of air, and then his face completely crumples and his eyes clench shut. His trembling hands come up to his face again, like he’s trying to hide.

She moves forward slowly and tentatively wraps him in her arms. He stays firmly frozen in place for a few extended moments before he finally breaks, arms coming around to return the embrace with a painful strength, fingers scrabbling frantically at her back. He buries his face in her neck as he finally lets out a sob, followed by another and another and another.

“Please,” he begs into her skin. “I…_Please_.”

She doesn’t know what his desperate pleas are for. For Clay to come back? For the pain to go away? For life to go back to what it was 48 hours ago? 

Probably all of those things. She has no suitable reply, nothing she can do or say to make things even remotely better, so she just holds onto the man she loves as he falls apart. 

Through it all, her predominant thought is _Thank God it wasn’t Sonny_. 

It’s a horrible thing to think, and she hates that it’s where her mind takes her because it feels like a betrayal to Clay. But she can’t help it. Sonny has wormed his way into every millimeter of her heart, and there’s no escape from that.

The pain of losing Spenser is unbearable, but she doesn’t know how she would go on if it had been the man she’s holding in her arms. It’s completely unfathomable.

Sonny gets completely shit-faced that night, and Lisa stays right by his side through the long, dark hours to make sure he’s still breathing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely not related to this fic - is the show ever gonna give us some kind of explanation for why Full Metal is regularly running with Bravo? I like having him around, but... Where is the rest of Alpha team and what are they doing without him?
> 
> And Kairos...he's just gone now? 
> 
> Is there any good fandom place out there in internet land where good discussion of the show happens?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the show is trying to make Ash seem more likable, but I prefer the dynamic created when he's an asshole, so that's where we're gonna stay!

The funeral is sad.

As Ray sits on the hard, uncomfortable wooden bench in the old church, he knows this isn’t what Clay would have wanted. He would have wanted the occasion to be a vibrant celebration of his life and his accomplishments. He would have wanted everyone in attendance to know he went out doing what he loved, something he was immensely proud of and passionate about.

There is some of that, but mostly, it’s just sad. 

Ray holds Naima’s hand while the priest goes on about sacrifice and a life cut far too short. That much is true, but Ray knows the maudlin sentimentality of it is something Clay would have hated. He’d have wanted his friends to share stories of their adventures down range, reminiscing about the good times they spent together, and laughing about the antics and shenanigans they got up to. Instead, the remaining members of Bravo team are sitting stiffly side by side, barely acknowledging each other. 

Ash Spenser starts speaking verbosely about how proud he is of the man his son was, and how much of an honor it is that he followed in his own illustrious footsteps. Ray can feel the energy shift in his row, as the collective hackles of the men of Bravo rise around him. Clay’s determination to succeed _despite_ his father is what they should really be celebrating. Ray tried not to be too nosy about that relationship, but he knows that it was contentious and bothered Clay. That Ash’s inability to be a decent father greatly affected his upbringing. And that Clay fought tooth and nail to overcome the baggage that the older man created in his life.

The team is struggling, and hearing the great Ash Spenser grandstand about his amazing son just adds insult to injury. It’s been a tough week and a half since they left Thailand and it feels like they’ve been stuck in some kind of foggy suspended animation. 

The funeral and burial couldn’t be planned until the testing was done to officially declare Clay dead, and any attempt to start to reach some kind of closure was held up along with it. Ray can’t fathom how the US military can send an entire team of elite operators halfway around the world at a moment’s notice, but it takes them days to work through the bureaucracy of their own system when it comes to the less ‘urgent’ matter of allowing an American hero to be laid to rest. 

The time has also been tough because there’s nothing to do. No one to go after and no opportunity for payback. The CIA is still working to figure out how the whole situation became such a disaster, but everyone involved in the trafficking ring has either been captured or killed. And the government leader who set the whole thing in motion has been arrested and likely won’t be seeing daylight as a free man ever again. So Bravo is left with no way to avenge Clay’s death, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. 

Aside from a few meetings, they haven’t really had a chance to seamlessly click back together as a group since the fire. Ray’s injury has sidelined them professionally for at least five weeks, though he’s pretty sure command wouldn’t spin them up right now even if he was healthy. Personally, they’re each dealing with Clay’s death in their own way. Ray’s way has mostly been to spend time with his family. Being around the guys makes him think too much about Clay, and that isn’t something he’s ready to really deal with yet.

An audible scoff from Jason at his side makes Ray realize he’s zoned out. It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t need to hear whatever nonsense Ash is spouting. In fact, he doesn’t want to be sitting here anymore at all. The strap of his sling is itchy and his arm aches, his healing collarbone and elbow not happy with the tension he’s holding in his body. Naima must sense his unease, because she releases his hand to soothingly run hers up and down his leg. It helps ease the tension enough to get him through the rest of the service. 

Ray is in the church courtyard catching up with some friends from other teams when he hears raised voices coming from the parking lot. 

When he gets there, he finds Ash berating Jason in a heated confrontation, the rest of the team watching anxiously. Neither man seems to have noticed the crowd of onlookers that has gathered around them.

Ash is up in Jason’s face, and based on how worked up he is, he’s clearly been going at it for a while. 

“For someone with your distinguished reputation, you sure have struggled to keep a team together and running smoothly lately, haven’t you? What is this, the third Bravo death in as many years?”

Ray’s actually impressed with Jason’s restraint, but he’s pretty sure it’s reached its end and his friend is about to deck the smarmy bastard. He kind of wants to let him. 

“Hey,” Trent steps in to pull Jason away, obviously sensing the same simmering rage from their team leader. “He’s not worth it, Jace.”

“You’re the medic, right?” Ash transfers his attention to Trent. “Tell me, between you and the revered Jason Hayes here, why is my son dead? Why didn’t you keep him alive?”

Not acceptable. Ray isn’t going to let this happen. “For God’s sake, you’re at your son’s funeral. Show some decency. You have no right –“

“He was my son!” the man spits out. “I have more right than anyone. I was his closest family.” 

“Family??” Brock asks incredulously.

It’s Trent who finally gets in Ash’s face. “Tell me, since you were such close family - what fast food joint did he always hit up after a mission? What’s the name of the friend he lost just before the end of his Green Team training? What was the first thing he always did when he woke up in the morning? What was his favorite book? Color? Movie? Place to visit? 

Ash just stares at him, jaw clenched and lip twitching. 

“Exactly,” Trent continues calmly. “And if you were so close, why didn’t he ever have a single good thing to say about you to any of us?” 

The man pales now, the hit to his carefully nurtured ego enough to render him completely speechless.

“Family is about more than blood,” Trent gestures to the group around him. “_We_ were his family. Not you. Now out of respect for our _brother_, we’re gonna leave before you make an even bigger scene.”

Not another word is said as they all head to their respective cars. As Ray pulls out of the parking lot, Ash is still glued, stone still, where they left him. 

**********

Naima drives the babysitter home while Ray gets RJ tucked into bed. He insists on taking his favorite toy cars with him, running them over the blanket while making ‘vroom vroom’ noises. Ray takes a moment to bask in the normalcy of it all, smiling for the first time in days. His son doesn’t have a care in the world, and that’s exactly how it should be. It’s so contrary to Ray’s own life right now.

Once RJ is settled, he moves to the couch in the living room, exhausted from the stress of the day.

“Daddy?” Ray looks over to see Jameelah standing at the end of the hall in her rainbow pajamas, biting her lip and looking at him with apprehension. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Are you sad?” 

Ray sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. His daughter is growing up so quickly, and apparently she’s becoming quite perceptive.

“Come here,” he holds his arm open, inviting her to join him on the couch. She climbs up eagerly and nestles into his good side. 

“I am sad,” he finally says. “And that’s okay. It’s okay to be sad sometimes.”

He buries his nose in her hair, taking in the comforting scent of peaches and cream and innocent little girl. He exhales a calming breath and reminds himself that this is why he does what he does. So little girls like Jameelah and little boys like RJ can grow up without having to be caught in the middle of the horrible atrocities he’s seen around the world. It’s what he fights for every day. 

And it’s what Clay fought for. 

It’s what he _died_ for. 

“Is it because you miss Uncle Clay?”

“Yeah. I miss him a lot.” 

“I miss him too.” 

Ray knows that’s true. The closeness of the team means their families have become extended families. Jameelah hadn’t quite been old enough to fully understand what was happening when Nate died, mostly just upset that Landon had to move away. But Clay’s death has been different. She cried when Ray and Naima sat her down to tell her, and she begged to go to the funeral, becoming angry when they told her it was only for adults and she needed to stay with RJ. 

Her distress was understandable. Clay was always so good with the kids. Patient and doting and happy to play the same game for hours on end. Ray had imagined that in another few years he would have some kids of his own - mini Clays running around and causing all sorts of mischief. He would have been _such_ a great father. It hurts to know that’s never going to happen.

“Uncle Clay…he died at work, right?” 

Ray’s a bit startled by the question. He can see the wheels turning in Jameelah’s head and his heart plummets to his stomach when he realizes where she’s taking the conversation. 

_Please not now, please not now. I can’t do this now._

Ray and Naima agreed a long time ago that they wouldn’t hide the nature and the danger of Ray’s profession from their children. They weren’t going to volunteer specific details or reveal anything before the kids were ready, but they agreed that they’d answer any questions as openly and honestly as they could. This is a life they chose together, and they willingly brought children into it fully understanding what that would mean for them. The least they can do is be honest. 

But Ray isn’t ready to do this now. He feels his heart rate increase, sweat breaking out on his brow. He needs Naima to be here. He always assumed they’d do this together. Or, selfishly, he thought it would come up while he was away and Naima would handle it on her own. She would know exactly what to say, the best way to handle the situation.

“He did die at work,” he finally answers, feeling like he’s just opened a door he won’t be able to close again. 

“But, you have the same job. You work together. You and Uncle Jason and the others.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Yeah, I did work with Uncle Clay.” 

“So…if he died when he went away to work, are you gonna die when you go to work too?”

And there it is. He should have anticipated this. That all of the events surrounding Clay’s death would finally prompt these questions.

He needs to tell her that his job is dangerous, but that what he and her uncles do is important. That they look out for each other and that they’re as careful as they can be to make sure they all get to come back home. Explain the risk, but emphasize how unlikely it is. 

He squeezes her tight, looks down into her big brown eyes, and…he can’t do it. 

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, baby,” he says instead. “Okay? _I promise_. “

**********

He doesn’t hear when Naima comes in, too stuck in his own head.

“Ray?”

He looks up from where he’s staring at the coffee table to find her looking at him with concern. 

“What happened?”

He’s ashamed. He feels like he failed. 

He could see the skepticism in the way Jameelah looked at him when he told her nothing would happen to him. But he still couldn’t do it, instead taking her to her room, tucking her in and kissing her goodnight. 

“Jam,” he says. “She asked if I was gonna die at work like Clay.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Naima says, deflating to sit down beside him, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” 

“I couldn’t do it, Naima,” he admits, looking into her eyes and seeing nothing but compassion. “I know we promised, but I couldn’t. Not now.”

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not. We’ve talked about this. It’s _not_ okay.” 

“Ray, stop. It is. It’s okay,” she assures. “There’s a lot going on right now. We’ll talk to her in a few days, when things settle down a little.” 

They sit in silence for several minutes. But Ray’s mind is anything but silent, a loud chorus of ‘what ifs’ that he can’t quiet constantly swirling around in a jumble in his brain.

“Should I get out of the teams?” he finally asks. “For you and the kids?”

Naima turns to him with a strange look, like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle. 

“Ray Perry, never once in all these years have I heard you even entertain the idea of doing something else. Where is this coming from?”

“Just wondering if it’s all worth it,” he replies, breaking eye contact to look at the floor. “The risk. Knowing what could happen. What that would mean for you. What it would mean for Jameelah and RJ.” 

She reaches over and grasps his forearm, thumb gently rubbing over his wrist in a soothing motion. 

“This isn’t the time to make decisions about anything. You’ve been through a trauma. All of you have.”

He nods, but he isn’t ready to let the subject go yet. “Lately, it just feels like we’re cursed. The last few years, it’s all piled on. I don’t know if Jay…” he trails off, not really knowing where he’s going with the thought.

“What, Ray?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, tell me. Is Jason slipping? Making mistakes?” 

“No,” he says, but he realizes it doesn’t sound very confident.

“Ray, your life depends on him being solid,” Naima insists. “The kids and I rely on him to get you home to us. Is there something to be concerned about?”

“No,” he says firmly staring her in the eye. “I trust Jason with my life, Naima.” 

“I know. But so did Clay.”

It’s a punch to the gut, and it takes him a moment to regain his breath. 

“That’s not fair,” he shakes his head. “What happened on that op wasn’t on Jay in any way. It was an intelligence failure. We can only work with what they give us, and what they gave us was shit. There’s nothing he could have done about that.”

“Okay, okay,” she says to keep him from getting too worked up. “You know I love Jason. But babe, there’s something that’s bothering you.” 

“I’m just worried about the team. Yes, I’m concerned about Jason. But the others too,” he emphasizes. “I think Trent blames himself. Brock’s even quieter than usual. And I don’t even know what’s going on with Sonny. They were really close, you know? It hit him hard. I don’t know how we’re all gonna move forward.”

Naima nods and sits with him quietly, not pushing while he sorts his thoughts.

“And what about you?” she finally asks, hand on his shoulder now. “How are you?”

“I’m…” he stops, not sure what he is exactly. He hasn’t really let himself think about it.

“Numb,” he finally responds. “None of it feels real.”

He knows he’s been avoiding grieving, refusing to really accept that Clay is gone. He’s afraid of the overwhelming emotions that are sure to come when he finally lets that reality fully crash in. He thought maybe it would hit him at the funeral, but it didn’t. 

“I can’t believe it was him,” he eventually says, and he can hear the emotion building in his own voice. “_Clay_. He was there one minute and then just like that, he was gone. We didn’t even get a chance to try to help him. It’s not fair.”

He thinks about Clay’s cocky confidence. His knowing smirk. His unlimited, boundless energy. The way he would unabashedly challenge everyone in the briefing room. How sweet he was with Cerberus. His determination to be the absolute best he could be at everything he did. All those things that came together to make Clay Spenser.

“He was so _young_, Naima. He had such a bright future, the most promising young operator I’ve ever seen. He was supposed to run his own team someday. He was supposed to get married. Have kids. Change the world,” he says with a shaky sigh.

He feels himself choking up, but he slams it back down. He isn’t ready to explore the personal side of the loss yet. It’s still too much.

“He was only with us for a few years, but when I try to picture the team running without him, I can’t do it. When it’s time to go back, I don’t know what that’s gonna look like.”

“You guys will figure it out,” Naima reassures. “You always do.”

He nods, knowing that’s always been the case.

But something feels different this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know all you Clay fans want to get back to him. You'll get a glimpse in the next chapter. I promise.
> 
> Based on the comments from the last chapter, I'm happy to see I'm not the only one wondering about Full Metal on the show. So I challenge someone out there to write a story about poor Alpha team, confused about where their leader went.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what this chapter was supposed to be. It was going to be a quick 500 word glimpse of Clay, fuzzy and indistinct. Somehow, it became the longest chapter so far.  
This is the first time I've had a chapter - and a character - absolutely refuse to do what I wanted it to do, and the struggle is real. So, it is what it is. 🤷
> 
> I should note - I originally didn't plan to show much of Clay's actual captivity, including any sexual abuse. A warning that changes here. There's definitely nothing graphic, but it is clearly happening. If you think you need to skip this chapter, you'll be able to continue with the next one just fine.
> 
> I know it's been a rough few chapters, and I promise the whole story won't be this dark.

Clay’s existence consists of hours of tedious monotony broken up by brief bursts of pain and humiliation.

He always assumed that if he was ever captured on a mission, that captivity would likely include torture, interrogation and possibly death. That’s what they’re prepared for. It’s what he roleplayed in his SERE training. 

And while that training also included hours upon hours of no activity, waiting for the next shoe to drop, he didn’t expect the real thing to be so…_boring_.

At first, everything is a blur. The attack in the house leaves him with an obvious head injury, and while he’s aware enough to know he’s been captured and that he’s truly in deep shit, he has a hard time pulling his thoughts together enough to actually do anything about it. 

So he isn’t sure how much time goes by in the beginning. Between the debilitating headaches and his inability to keep himself awake for very long, it could be a day or it could be three. What he does know is that he’s been moved at least twice – aware of the rumble of a vehicle under his cheek, sending painful vibrations through his battered mouth, and the rough jostling of being heaved about by his arms and legs.

By the time he really starts to come back to himself, he’s in a high-ceilinged room lined with flowery wallpaper. The rickety interior steps and the small, barred, rectangular window on the wall up by the ceiling make him think it’s a basement. There’s a desk and a chair, a TV, a bookcase lined with old paperbacks, a closet full of clothes and a bed. One corner even holds a sink and a toilet.

Aside from the fact that his ankle is attached to a long chain that’s connected to the radiator, it’s all very _normal_.

He’s happy he hasn’t landed in a dungeon or something, but the Leave it to Beaver quality of the room fills him with unease. He’s not completely certain what his captors are after, though he has a fairly good idea considering the nature of the ring they were taking down when he was nabbed. 

So on second thought, maybe a torture dungeon would be preferable. 

Clay searches for something that he can use as a weapon. The best he can come up with is a wooden chair leg and some nails he manages to pry out of the boards on the floor.

Then he starts to count. 

He counts so he’ll be ready to aid in his own rescue or escape – the number of steps up to the next floor, how many distinct sets of feet he hears moving around upstairs, how many strides it will take him to get to the door from different positions in the room and how long it will take him to do it.

And he gets to work trying to pick the lock on his chain, so he’ll be ready to fight back given the right opportunity. 

He thinks maybe he kills the first guy who tries to touch him. 

The man saunters down the steps like he owns the place, well before Clay has a chance to free himself from the chain. He’s tall and wiry and gross, and he doesn’t take Clay’s warning to stay away seriously, so Clay knocks him down with the chair leg and then slams his head into the wall so hard he’s immediately out like a light. 

Clay gets tased for his troubles and the man is gone by the time he sufficiently recovers, the rough dent in the wall the only indication he was ever there. 

No one else comes in after that, until he’s moved again the next day.

********** 

He’s handed off to three men who yank the hood off of his head and shove him into the backseat of a shiny new pickup, his hands secured uncomfortably behind his back and two handguns pointed at his head. He’s obviously concerned that they don’t mind him seeing their faces, but he isn’t really in a position to worry too much about that right now. 

They pull up to the loading dock of a nondescript rectangular box of a warehouse and forcibly pull him from the truck.

Clay counts the number of doors and hallways he’s dragged through. 

He counts the number of guards he sees. 

He counts the number of cells he passes on the way to the one he's deposited in.

It looks like a typical prison cell. There’s a door instead of bars, with a slot in the middle to send food and other items through. A bed is attached to one of the walls, with a toilet and sink combo across the way. There’s a small glass-block window high up on the far wall that allows light in but doesn’t offer a clear view of anything. And there’s a camera. It’s in the corner of the ceiling, pointing down on the small space.

Through the slot in his door, a guard tells him in English what’s expected of him – that ‘clients’ will come to visit and he’s expected to let them do whatever they want to him. That his compliance will be rewarded with extra food and clothes, recreation time, reading materials and extra toiletries.

Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. 

This group must realize he isn’t willing to play ball, because they skip straight to drugging him to force his submission. 

He’s three long days in when he becomes woozy after eating his bologna sandwich lunch. At first, he thinks he might be getting sick, and he’s just stumbled to the bed to lie down when the door to his cell opens. An armed guard stands by while a large, muscled, balding man with glasses enters the room.

Clay feels heat flood his face when he realizes what’s about to happen. “Fuck you,” he spits. The words come out shaky, quiet and hoarse, maybe from the drug, but probably because he hasn’t tried to use his voice in a few days. 

The man just laughs. 

The drug is effective. Clay is semi-awake and aware, but his limbs are uncoordinated, his strength is dampened and he isn’t able to put up much of a fight. But that doesn’t stop him from trying his hardest for as long as he can before he finally can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

When he wakes up he’s alone again, cold and in a kind of pain he’s never felt before. It makes him angry, but he’s surprised to also feel embarrassment and shame spreading through his veins. He’s always known sexual assault was a possibility in the ‘I’ve been captured’ menu of horrible things that can happen to you. But in a life-altering way, this feels very different than other abuses he could be subjected to. He uses the sink in the corner and the thin, tattered washcloth they gave him to try to scrub himself clean.

He stops eating after that. Drinking too. 

It’s a hard decision to make, because he knows he needs to keep his strength up. He’ll need it in order to have any chance at an escape. Or to stay alive for his team to find him. But while that argument makes sense logically in his head, he just can’t do it. He can’t willingly allow himself to be drugged knowing what would come next. That’s like being a voluntary participant, and it isn’t in his nature.

After four skipped meals, the choice is taken away from him anyway. When the slot in his door opens at breakfast time, it isn’t a tray that comes through, but a small canister. As it clatters to the floor, his instincts tell him grenade, so he immediately takes cover in a corner. But it turns out to hold some kind of gas that spreads through the room – and it quickly gives him the same woozy feeling from before. 

This time he puts up more of a fight. He manages to get his hands around the client’s neck, but can’t put much strength behind the effort. He gets a punch to the face in return. 

The next time they send in the gas they follow it up with an injection into his thigh. Some kind of an anesthetic he thinks, based on the way it takes away any feeling and makes him very drowsy. It’s _so_ much better than the gas alone. He still knows what’s happening to him, but he doesn’t really feel it and his brain is in a blessed fog that makes him not even care.

If you’d asked him about sex trafficking before, he would have brought to mind cheap motels, dirty truck stops and dark street corners. Not this. This is more like sex _slavery_ on an industrial scale. And he finds it hard to believe that it’s actually his reality.

As the days and weeks slip by, things almost start to feel routine. Sometimes nothing happens for days at a time and sometimes there are multiple clients in one day. He spends hours and hours and hours sitting in the silence.

He continues to count. At first, it was so he’d have information necessary to escape, aid in a rescue, or track down his captors afterward. But it eventually shifts to a way to keep his mind occupied, to preserve his sanity in the endless hours of nothing. The numbers become his only companion. 

He counts the days. 

He counts the number of men, and sometimes women, who come in to do horrible things to him. 

He counts his escape attempts, and he counts the injuries that come from those attempts – broken fingers and ribs, bloody noses, gashes, scratches, scrapes.

He counts the false alarms - the times he hears a loud crash or something that might be gunfire, and thinks his brothers are coming to save him.

He counts every crack in the cold concrete wall. 

He counts the freckles on his arms and legs. 

He counts each strand of hair, which is getting way too long.

He counts how many seconds it takes for the toilet to flush. 

He counts things from his memories – the movies he’s seen and the books he’s read.

He counts the intense headaches that seem to be a permanent remnant of his attack.

Sometimes he spends hours counting each of his own breaths. Or his heartbeat. Or the blinking of his eyes.

If it’s something you can think to count, he’s counted it.

He counts the number of times they give him the gas alone versus pairing it with the injection. 

He prefers the injection so much that he eventually starts accepting it willingly, holding his arm up to the slot in the door.

The first time he does it, it comes with an enormous amount of shame. He feels like he’s failed - not just himself, but his country. He pictures the faces of his teammates and wonders what they would think of him. Whether they would be ashamed _of_ him. The code of conduct they all commit to memory cycles through his mind.

_ If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and to aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy._

The only way he can justify it to himself is that he isn’t a POW here. This isn’t the enemy the code is referring to, at least not in that way. This is Clay’s own personal war, and it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with his team or the military or the United States. He’s completely on his own.

So he accepts the drug willingly. 

He also considers that he may be dependent on it at this point. He definitely knows he’s addicted to one of the side effects – the comedown from it makes him dream in vivid detail.

The dreams are so realistic they’re more like hallucinations. Sometimes they’re grand and epic – running missions with his brothers, or bright, bold fantasy worlds like something you’d see in a movie. But more often, they’re normal everyday life – watching a football game on a rainy Sunday afternoon, a nice dinner out with friends, shooting the shit with Sonny and Trent in their cages on base. 

And sometimes they’re actual memories that he relives – being in the car with Stella before he left for Mexico, standing in Jason’s kitchen after they lost Alana, watching Brian tumble through the sky as the ground came up to meet him. 

Even when they’re sad, Clay’s thankful for them. Dreaming is the only thing that makes him feel like he’s still alive.

There’s one dream that recurs. It’s his advanced SERE training evolution right before he graduated Green Team. He’s in the water, trying to breach the surface. And Bravo is suddenly there. He remembers it _so_ clearly. They weren’t his team yet, but he reached out his hand and they were there to grasp it – to _rescue_ him - and that’s all that mattered. 

As he groggily wakes and comes back to awareness, he often feels the phantom weight of Cerberus nuzzled against his side. It isn’t until he reaches down to scratch the dog’s ears and finds nothing there that reality comes crashing back into him.

And the tedium continues.

Thinking about his brothers from Bravo team is bittersweet, so he doesn’t allow himself much time to do it outside of the dreams. They’re his best friends, and he didn’t realize how much he appreciated their simple companionship until now. 

He was so confident in the beginning that they would come for him. He _knew_ that if he managed to keep himself alive long enough, they’d find him. 

But they never did. 

He’s spent hours working through possibilities for why that is, and there seem to only be three solid, plausible explanations. 

The first is that they simply haven’t been able to find him, though it’s hard to believe that’s possible after all this time and given all the resources that are available to them. But he’s 100% certain they wouldn’t give up, and he continues to bank on this possibility being the reality. Because it gives him a tiny sliver of hope, but also because the alternatives are so much worse. 

They could think Clay is dead. He hasn’t been able to work out the details of exactly why that would be, but it would make sense. Bad intelligence maybe. God knows, they had a lot of that in the months leading up to his capture. As far as he’s aware, his captors haven’t been in touch with the US government at all. He hasn’t been made to record any kind of ransom video or give proof of life phone calls. They’ve taken a few photos of him, but those seemed to be more related to the ‘business’ than anything more nefarious. So in the absence of contact from his captors, he doesn’t know what would make his team think he’s dead, only that it’s a possible explanation.

Clay doesn’t like to think about the worst case scenario for why his team hasn’t come for him – that _they’re_ all dead. Possibly killed in the same trafficking mission that got him captured, or even worse, in an attempt to rescue him. That physically hurts to think about, painfully twists his gut and sends a sharp stab through his chest that takes his breath away a little bit. Losing all of them would be gut-wrenching, but if it happened because of him, while they were trying to help _him_, Clay wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Whatever the reason, it gets harder and harder to have any kind of faith that there will be a rescue. Clay begins to accept that his only option may be to rescue himself. Or to die trying.

On day 94, they drug him up and move him again.

**********

Clay knows immediately that his situation just got a lot worse and that things are about to go downhill dramatically. He’s left in a concrete box, no more than 7 feet in any direction, with only a dirty mattress and a bucket to fill the space. There’s a single, exposed light bulb overhead and not a window in sight. He’s completely stripped of his clothes and his arms and legs are shackled to the wall with chains that don’t give him much range of movement.

It’s suffocating. 

Clay’s never been prone to claustrophobia, but this is doing a number on him. He wonders if this feeling - like the world is just going to keep closing in around him until it crushes him completely - is how Sonny felt in that torpedo tube. 

He doesn’t have any control over the lightbulb in the ceiling. There’s no switch, no pull string. It seems to turn on and off at random. When it’s on, there’s a dim, eerie glow that fills the space. When it’s off, the darkness is the blackest he’s ever experienced. It’s disorienting and it feels like a physical thing, weighing down on him. He struggles to track his own body parts, unable to root himself in reality.

Clay has no way of knowing whether it’s daytime or nighttime, and it bothers him deeply that he can’t continue counting the days, causing panic to rise in his chest. It feels like he’s lost a friend.

After an extended period of time with no activity and barely anything to eat or drink, he starts to really feel the desperation take hold. For the first time in this long ordeal, he seriously doubts whether he’s going to survive it. Whether he has the mental fortitude to stick it out. 

He knows if he’s going to have any hope of making it through, he needs to keep his mind sharp. So he keeps up his counting. 

He counts the number of links on his chains. 

He counts each filament in the cobwebs in the corners, the stains on the mattress. 

He counts the track marks on his arms and legs.

He counts the number of lice he pulls from his ratty, matted hair.

He counts the screams he hears coming through the walls around him.

His new captors use the same drug, but they don’t give him enough. He’s far too aware, and the clients here are different from the others. They’re rougher. He refuses to look any of them in the eye, but he knows there’s a brutality there that’s reserved for the worst scum of the Earth. 

After four clients, he just can’t do it anymore, so he decides to make an escape attempt when the next injection happens. The guard who comes in the most often has a bright shock of red hair, a pock marked face and a bad temper. But he isn’t very big, and Clay figures if he’s gonna have a chance at overpowering someone, it might as well be him. 

But he sizes the situation up wrong. He’s weaker than he realized and he never has a chance. Instead, the scuffle leaves him with a pounding headache, a broken nose, boot marks on his bruised abdomen and what he’s pretty sure is a broken wrist.

To add insult to injury, the client who comes in next is the most callous he’s had so far. He’s the worst kind of sadist and clearly takes some kind of sick pleasure from Clay’s miserable state. 

Clay makes himself dissociate, which he’s gotten pretty good at, but he’s suddenly jerked back to reality when air abruptly stops entering his lungs. It takes his brain a beat to get with the program and realize he’s being strangled, meaty hands wrapped like a vice around this throat. The surge of adrenaline immediately cancels out any impact from the drug and instinct takes over completely. 

Clay fights back like he’s never fought for anything before, kicking and clawing and doing everything he can to save what little life he has left. But he feels himself slipping. Black spots seep into his vision and noise becomes muffled behind the pounding in his ears and he feels like he’s floating away from his body. _No one is ever going to know what happened to me_ is the last thought he has before everything goes dark. 

**********

Clay’s return to consciousness is gradual, and he spends hours just struggling to breathe through the swollen, battered tissues in his throat. He curls up the best he can on the dingy mattress, cradles his injured arm against his chest and for the first time since all of this started, he cries. 

He lets himself wallow in the unfairness of what he’s been forced to endure. 

And he lets boiling anger take over, this time directed not at himself or his captors or the clients, but at his country, the Navy and his brothers.

He refuses to think about them anymore – Jason, Ray, Sonny, Trent, Brock. And Cerberus. Blackburn and Lisa and Mandy and the support staff too. He packs their names and faces up in a box and shoves it into a faraway corner. It’s too painful to allow himself to think there might be hope of seeing them again. Of them _helping_ him. It hasn’t gotten him anything but more misery.

He wishes the client had just finished him off, killed him and made this nightmare come to an end. If he could go back, he wouldn’t have struggled so hard, would have accepted the oblivion gladly.

Because he can’t _do_ this anymore. 

And that’s the day he stops counting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you actually made it through all of that, thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

“You do know sharks live in the ocean, right Sonny?” Trent goads from where he’s just settled into his hammock. “They aren’t gonna get you in a lake.” 

Sonny sets their medic swinging with a nudge of his boot. “Now, that’s just not true. You know bull sharks? They live in both salt _and_ fresh water.” 

“Okay, fair enough. But I’m pretty sure there aren’t any bull sharks in Stumpy Lake.” 

“Maybe not,” Sonny concedes. “Gotta be snakes though. Big ones. And alligators. Where do you think the name Stumpy comes from? Lost limbs and such.” 

“You are so full of shit, Sonny,” Ray chimes in with a chuckle.

“Fine, you gents want to risk life and limb in your off time, that’s on you. I’ll stay on the beach, sand between my toes.”

Jason rolls his eyes and throws his crushed beer can at him before turning back to his laptop, determined to finish the AAR before they hit the states. 

They’re on the plane, on their way home from a perfectly executed mission in Africa and looking forward to a relaxing weekend off. The weather’s supposed to be nice, so they’ve decided to spend a few hours at the lake on Saturday, eating more barbeque than their stomachs can hold, drinking more beer than is wise and maybe venturing out in a kayak or two.

Jason feels good about the way the team has been running lately. It took time to get there, but things finally feel stable. It’s not the same as it was with Clay. It never will be. But they continue on, because that’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. 

Blackburn makes his way down the belly of the plane and nods Jason toward an empty section of web seats. He groans as he heaves himself up from the crate he’s sitting on. He already knows what this is going to be about, and he doesn’t need the lecture right now.

“Have you decided what you want to do about the draft?” Their commander doesn’t waste any time, starting in before Jason even has a chance to sit down.

He shakes his head before looking at Eric innocently and asking, “What draft?”

The man sighs in exasperation. 

“Jason, command is out of patience. I’m sorry. I’ve held them off for as long as possible, but there’s nothing more I can do. If you don’t pick someone when Green Team graduates, a pick will be made for you.”

“What’s wrong with the team the way it is? We’re running well. Haven’t had a single misstep.”

“It’s not about missteps. It’s about expectations. Command expects there to be at least six operators on each tier one team. It’s just the way it is.” 

“We don’t need it,” is Jason’s frustrated reply. “Another guy. This group works well together. Seems stupid to rock that boat just to meet an arbitrary number.” 

“Is that really what this is about?” Blackburn asks pointedly. “You think bringing someone else in is going to upset the balance?”

Jason looks at him, jaw clenched and feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Didn’t think so,” the officer says gently. 

They sit in silence for a while before Blackburn starts up again. “You need to make some decisions. About what’s best for you. And about what’s best for your men. I’m not gonna tell you what to decide. But I am telling you that you need to make a decision and you need to be in it 100%. It’s what Bravo team deserves.” 

Jason looks away, but nods lightly. 

“Your duty is to do what’s best for the country and for your team,” Blackburn finishes. “Not what makes you the most comfortable.” 

**********

It’s a perfect lake day. The air is warm with a nice breeze and the sun is sparkling on the water. Jason is sprawled in a beach chair, taking in the scene. Cerberus is having the time of his life, frolicking in the water as Brock throws a stick for him over and over again. Ray and Trent have somehow managed to get Sonny into a kayak – God knows how – and Jason throws his head back and laughs when the vessel gets rocked and the phobia-prone Texan lets out an undignified squawk. 

He’s proud of these men. It’s been a rough few months, but they’re all hanging in there. Jason knows he’s personally been putting on a façade to a certain degree – making it seem like he’s doing better than he actually is. But he tells himself that’s okay. He needs to set the example for the team, and that’s what he’s gonna do. Fake it till you make it.

Ray eventually flops down on a towel next to him, and in his relaxed, slightly buzzed state, Jason speaks before he even realizes he’s going to.

“Blackburn’s up my ass about the draft.” 

His friend looks at him like it’s a trap. Like he’s afraid to take the bait and engage in the conversation. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to interview them, Jace,” he finally responds. “There are some really good candidates in this selection class. Guys I think would make great additions to the team.” 

Jason gives him a sideways glance, fidgeting with the beer bottle in his hands.

“I like Faris,” Ray continues. “He’s sharp as a whip. Confident, but not cocky. His stats are good and the other guys seem to really respect him.”

Jason sighs and closes his eyes. He wishes he hadn’t started the conversation. 

Ray clearly senses the tension and shuts up. For a few minutes at least. But Ray is never one to let a chance to dig into Jason’s psyche pass him by, so he follows up with, “What do you want, Jason?” 

That’s a loaded question, but fine. Jason will play. “From the draft?”

“Sure. Or the team. Or life in general.” 

He’s not sure what compels him to open up, but he’s as shocked by the answer that comes out of his mouth as Ray seems to be. 

“I want to stop getting my friends killed.”

The resulting silence is uncomfortable, so he continues. 

“After Nate -” he pauses to try to figure out what he wants to say. “Clay reminded me of him so much. We all knew it, but I couldn’t admit it. I knew if I did… I knew something bad would happen.” 

“Jay, I’m not gonna waste my breath trying to convince you that what happened to Clay wasn’t your fault. I know you know that, somewhere deep in that stubborn head of yours.”

Jason’s not sure he _does_ know that. He knows the way they lost Clay was unfair. That there were massive intelligence and surveillance failures. But he’s also re-lived that night a thousand times, examined it from every angle. And he knows there are things he should have done differently. He should have set exterior security when they arrived. And he should have cleared his men from the house as soon as the firefight started.

Bottom line - every time they go out there, it’s his responsibility as Bravo 1 to get all of them back home safely. _Period._ And he failed to do that.

Jason sighs heavily and scrubs a hand through his hair. 

“Jason…”

He forces himself to look at his friend, and he can’t quite decipher the look on his face. It sets a butterfly loose in his stomach.

“I can’t tell you how much I respect you, brother,” Ray starts cautiously. “And there’s no one I trust more to be out there by my side.” 

It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.

“But as a friend…,” Ray’s voice fades out briefly before he continues. “I wonder if it’s time for you to give it up.”

Jason feels his own brow crease. That isn’t what he expected.

“You do a good job of hiding it, but it’s killing you, Jace. The job. The weight you carry. The loss.”

Jason can’t believe Ray is doing this now, on a day when they’re supposed to be able to get away from it all. But mostly, he hates that his friend can read him so perfectly. See straight through any wall he tries to put up.

“And you owe it to your kids… You owe it to Emma and Mikey to be there for them. To see them get married, have kids of their own. To not be a shadow or a shell of what you used to be. If that means getting out now, then that’s what you should do. Stop worrying about the rest of us. Worry about yourself for a change.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I can’t just quit.” 

Ray nods slightly, mind churning behind the intensity of his eyes. “You know, back when you sidelined me because of the shoulder thing and I was thinking about jumping to Charlie, Harrington told me quitting isn’t in my skill set. It’s true. For all of us, and definitely for you. But this wouldn’t be _quitting_ Jason. It would be finishing the mission. Putting a cap on a long, successful career. You’ve given more to the Navy – to this country – than anyone could have ever expected from you.”

“And what am I supposed to do, huh?” Jason asks, frustrated now. Not at Ray, but at the vision of his future he sees staring him down. “Mikey will be off to college in a few years. Emma’s already gone. So what does that leave? Get some private security job and come home to an empty house every night?”

“Sounds like a good gig to me.” 

“Then you do it!” he snaps. “I can’t sit around knowing you and the rest of the guys are out there without me. I learned what that feels like after Alana died. It’s a gnawing pit in my stomach when Bravo spins up. It’s dread every time the phone rings. It’s wondering if I could have done something to help when – ”

“Jay…”

“_No_. I tried it once before and you know what happened? Adam died! Because I wasn’t there. The one time I stayed behind, it all went to shit.”

“That wouldn’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said about Clay!” 

He can see the confusion spread on his friend’s face.

“When Nate died and I was hesitant to draft Clay, you said it wouldn’t happen again! Not to him.” 

Ray actually rocks back as the words register, as if Jason slapped him.

“But it did, Ray!” Jason continues angrily. “Against my own better judgement, I went with him, and look what happened!”

Ray stares at him for a minute before he finally looks away, shaking his head. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “You’re twisting it up in your head, making it into something it’s not. You drafted Brock. And Sonny. They’re still here.” 

Jason feels guilty immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s not on you.”

“And it’s not on _you_.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, birds cawing overhead and the faint smell of fish and barbeque in the air.

“What do you see when you look at them?” Ray asks, nodding toward the water. 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I see?’ I see my team. My brothers.”

“Well, I see three men who are stuck,” Ray says matter-of-factly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“They’re doing a good job of covering it, but they’re struggling.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Ray, we’ve been through hell the last few years. I think that’s to be expected.”

“I’m not denying that. We’ve had a pretty rotten string of luck. But this is about _Clay_. It’s about his empty seat in the briefing room. And his cage. And the uncomfortable pauses in conversation because we don’t talk about him. With those constant reminders, we aren’t letting them try to move on. And it isn’t fair.” 

Jason scoffs and looks out to the water, but Ray continues.

“You’re a smart guy, Jason. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Brock is spending more and more time by himself. How Trent has been mother-henning us to death. Or the way Sonny will just kind of zone out when a memory is triggered?”

Jason can’t pretend he hasn’t noticed those things. But operationally, they’re working well, so it’s easy to stick his head in the sand and pretend the personal side of things isn’t an issue.

“We need to move forward,” Ray continues insistently. “You need to pick someone from Green Team.” 

Jason finally deflates. “I’m not ready to replace him.”

“I’m not talking about replacing Clay. I loved that kid like he was my little brother. You know that. He can _never_ be replaced. I’m talking about expanding the family. Getting some new blood in here so there’s a new focus. Mix things up with a new perspective.” 

Jason’s phone vibrates in his lap and he sees Blackburn’s name flash across the screen. He’s happy for the interruption. 

“Eric?”

“I need you to come in.” The man’s voice immediately sounds off. Strained. “Can you gather your team?”

“We’re all together right now,” Jason replies with concern. “What’s this about? We’re supposed to have the weekend off.” 

“You do. This isn’t a target package coming in. It’s something else.” The normally unflappable man pauses before finishing shakily, “I just need you all to come in. As soon as you can.” 

“Got it,” Jason says without question, as he signals Ray to round up the guys. “We’ll be there in 30.”


	8. Chapter 8

Brock files into the briefing room with his teammates, still clad in their damp board shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. Their relaxing day at the lake came to an abrupt end, and they’re all anxious to find out why. 

The normally bustling space is quiet, with Blackburn, Davis and Ellis as the only occupants. They’re gathered at the front of the room, and Brock can’t read the looks on their faces. But he’s definitely getting an uneasy vibe. Mandy’s eyes are red-rimmed, and Lisa isn’t looking at any of them.

“Go ahead and take a seat, guys,” Blackburn says as soon as the door has closed. Cerberus does a lap of the room as they settle in, always excited to greet his friends. When he gets to Blackburn, the man takes an extended moment to crouch down to pet him, seeming to savor the comfort the dog brings. Brock leans back in his chair and looks around the table to see the rest of the team has the same unsettled look he feels on his own face.

“What’s going on?” Jason asks, with worried impatience.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Blackburn straightens back up. “So I’m just gonna say it.”

But he doesn’t say anything. He looks at each of them in turn and then sighs, closes his eyes and seems to change course. 

“But let me first say that we are using every available resource at our disposal to run this down.” He pauses before looking each of them in the eye again and continuing with intense conviction, “You need to know that.”

“I don’t like the sound of this fellas,” Sonny says, leaning forward in his chair.

“A CIA sweep of some networks on the dark web came across a sex slavery auction site. They’re pretty common, unfortunately, and the agency regularly seeks them out in their attempt to combat human trafficking around the world. They run advanced facial recognition programs to identify missing persons, particularly focused on finding American citizens.”

Brock’s mind is churning at warp speed, but try as he might, he can’t suss out what this could possibly have to do with them. Or why it was urgent enough to pull them in on a day off. Jason said it wasn’t a spin up, but this sounds like they’re being read in for an op.

“One of the pictures…” 

“Spit it out Blackburn,” Jason says impatiently.

“It’s Clay.”

That…is not where Brock expected this to go. And based on the silence in the room, he’s not the only one who’s confused.

“I don’t understand,” Ray finally says.

“They’re using his image to sell sex?” Trent questions. 

“Fuck that,” Sonny spits, yanking the toothpick from his teeth.

“No,” Blackburn clarifies. “It’s Clay. In the picture. And we believe it’s recent.”

Brock’s brain glitches. It’s like there are pieces he knows he should be able to put together here, but they’re from two different puzzles. “Recent? What does that mean?” he asks. 

“Clay’s alive. Or at least, he was when this picture was taken. The auction was held about three weeks ago.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jason asks. “Clay’s dead.”

“It seems he isn’t.”

Brock’s heartbeat is whooshing in his head and for a moment, nothing else exists. His mind transports him straight back to that night. The fire. The absolute, all-consuming feeling of horror, hopelessness and desperation when they realized it was too late. That there was no way to save their friend. 

Clay alive? It’s not possible. 

“We were there,” Trent shakes his head, all of them clearly following the same train of thought. “The fire…there’s no way. How can that be possible?”

“We don’t know,” Blackburn replies with a forced calm. “We’re trying to figure all of that out now. This is a fluid, fast moving situation.”

“Let us see,” Jason says.

“What?” 

“The picture,” is the steely reply, like he’s spelling it out for a five-year-old. “I want to see it.” 

Blackburn’s shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” 

“Frankly, Eric, I don’t care what you think,” Jason says, rising to his feet and staring the commander down. “You just dropped a bomb on us and we’re just supposed to accept it? We don’t believe anything you’re saying right now. There are a hundred different things that don’t add up here. So show us the damn picture.”

Blackburn holds his gaze for a moment before breaking the spell. He nods to Mandy, who turns the screen on. A photo fills the space that blackness filled only moments before.

“Oh my God,” Trent lets out on a quiet exhale.

It’s undoubtedly Clay. There’s no question. His face is thinner and his hair is longer, but it’s definitely him. 

Brock would know those crystal blue eyes anywhere.

Sonny’s on his feet in an instant and he moves to the screen, hand raised up to the image like he can reach right into it. “How…”

“Where…where is he?” Ray’s voice cracks. 

“We don’t know.”

Brock’s having a hard time breathing, the tightness in his chest stopping each inhale short before it can make it fully into his lungs. He tries to blink away the tunnel vision that’s closing in. He’s never been so stunned by anything in his life. He doesn’t think a word exists to accurately describe what he’s feeling. 

His arms are tingling and his ears are ringing. And he can’t look at the photo for another second. It’s like the Earth just shifted on its axis, throwing everything into an unnatural imbalance. If he wasn’t already sitting down, he’s sure he’d fall down. It’s like he’s underwater, everything fuzzy, dreamlike and indistinct. Unreal.

A wet tongue on his hand drags him back to the present, and he grips Cerberus tightly – probably painfully – struggling to ground himself. 

He looks around the room desperately, needing someone to make some kind of sense of this. 

Jason has silently dropped back into his seat. He’s leaning on the table with one elbow, hand gripping his hair while the other is clenched with white knuckles around the armrest of his chair. Brock can’t see his face, but his posture looks both tense and defeated at the same time.

Trent is on his feet, arms crossed and staring at the photo in utter disbelief. Brock imagines the same look he sees on Trent’s face is reflected on his own.

“Is that a prison?” Ray asks from where he’s now standing next to Sonny at the screen. 

Without thinking, Brock moves to join them. He forces himself to look at the image, to look past Clay to take in the whole picture. It does look like a prison cell. Concrete walls are visible, with what looks like the end of a bed attached to the corner. Clay is wearing some kind of brown tunic, and he’s visible from the waist up. It looks like he’s been caught by surprise, like he didn’t know the picture was going to be taken. His eyes are looking straight into the camera. They’re dull, missing the life Brock’s used to seeing in them, but he seems to be alert. He has some marks on his face and arms, but is otherwise intact. His hair is long, but doesn’t look unclean, and his beard only shows a few days of growth. 

“It’s probably a prison of sorts,” Mandy chimes in. “These underground networks have all kinds of facilities they house their victims in. This one likely holds several, possibly as many as 30 or 40.”

“Do you know where it is?” Brock asks, wanting nothing more than to be there with Clay. To be able to get him out of that place.

“No. We’re working on that. But Clay likely isn’t there anymore anyway. He was probably moved after the auction.” 

“You’re saying some sicko bought him like he’s a head of cattle?” Sonny asks. The man’s face is ashen, his eyes frantic.

“These networks…the people they buy and sell,” Ray forces out, like it’s painful to say the words. “It’s for sex?” 

“Yes,” Mandy says, before pausing for a moment. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. You deserve to know what we’re dealing with here. This is the darkest underbelly of the sex trade. Most victims who get caught up in it never come back out. They just disappear.”

“So all this time, he’s been…” Brock can’t finish the thought. To think they somehow left Clay behind is a total gut punch. But to learn that he’s being used – _tortured_ – in such a horrendous way…it’s unimaginable.

“No, no, no.” Jason is on his feet now, pacing like an animal trapped in a cage. “This can’t…”

“I know this is a shock,” Blackburn says. “It is for all of us.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Ray asks, as he sinks back into his seat.

Blackburn bows his head, like he knows his answer isn’t going to be well received. “We wait. Once we have something actionable to go on, I promise, you’ll be the first to hear.”

“You expect us to sit around like good little boys and wait patiently while our kid is out there alone?” Jason plants his hands firmly on the table, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “It’s been…_Jesus Christ_. It’s been four months, Eric!” 

There’s an almighty crash as Sonny heaves a laptop across the room before spinning back around to face them. 

“We left him there!” the Texan shouts, rage and despair warring for dominance on his face. “He waited for us to come for him and we never did. Can you even imagine what he must think? He thinks we abandoned him!”

“He would never think that.” 

“It’s been _four months_, Ray! What else could he possibly think?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ray says adamantly. “None of it matters. The only thing that does is getting him back now. Making it right.”

“Guys, he’s _alive_,” Lisa says, breaking her silence for the first time since they all entered the room. “Don’t lose sight of that. _Clay’s alive_.” 

And that does send a surge of warmth through Brock’s chest. The thought that Clay isn’t dead. That they didn’t lose him in that fire. That they have a chance of getting him back. 

It’s hard to believe.

“He’d rather be dead,” Sonny declares as he stands behind his chair, hands twisting into the seatback.

“Sonny…” Lisa says with warning in her voice.

“I know it,” he insists. “You all know it! Would any of you choose this over death?” His wild eyes move frantically around the room.

“He’s strong,” Trent cuts in. “The human mind has an extraordinary ability to help us survive unthinkable things and still come out the other side. And he looks healthy, relatively speaking.” 

“Healthy?! Like he’s just been away getting some R&R at a fancy resort? A nice massage with a side of rape?”

“Sonny, _stop it_!” Jason demands, his breath heaving in and out of his chest. “It doesn’t matter what’s happened to him. As long as he’s alive, we’re gonna find him. He’s our brother and we’re gonna bring him home. No man left behind.” 

“Right,” Sonny scoffs. “Except apparently we already left him behind, Jason.”

Brock’s chest hurts and he feels like he’s going to be sick. He can clearly see that Sonny’s outburst is born out of fear. And panic and heartache. It’s written all over his face, and he knows the man well enough to see straight through the armor he tries to put up to cover his emotions. But what Sonny’s saying is true. They left their brother behind, and that’s unforgivable. 

“How did this happen?” Ray asks after a few minutes of strained silence. “Who the hell did we bury?”

“We don’t know,” Blackburn replies, voice full of frustration. “But we _will_ find out.”

“There were two bodies, right? And there was testing done to make sure it was Clay?”

“Yes. There wasn’t much left, guys. But the test did confirm one set of remains to be Clay. It doesn’t add up, I know. We’re going to figure it out, I promise.”

“I don’t understand how he could have gotten out,” Trent says. “Both entrances were covered. Did he climb out a window or something? Too injured to get to us and we just didn’t see him?”

“That doesn’t explain the remains though,” Brock points out. “Two bodies.” 

“That can all wait,” Lisa says. “The biggest priority now is to find out where he is so we can go get him.”

“You’re sending us, right? Bravo?” Jason directs at Blackburn, like it just dawned on him that might not be the case. “It’s not gonna be another team. He needs it to be us. _We_ need it to be us.”

“It’s unorthodox, but yes, that’s the plan,” Blackburn nods. “I agree that he’s going to need friendly faces. So stay close and be ready. Hopefully we’ll have news soon.” 

“I need a drink,” Sonny says as he finally falls with exhaustion back into his chair, his fit of rage gone as quickly as it came. 

“No,” Jason says firmly. “Sonny, when this goes down, if you come in here drunk or hungover, you aren’t going. Do you understand me?”

“I need to be there, Jace,” the younger man says plaintively, like the idea of being left behind is more than he can bear. 

“Then make sure you are,” Jason replies. “This isn’t about you. It’s about Clay. And it’s too important. He’s the only thing that matters now. Does everyone get that? _The only thing_.”

There are nods all around.

“Roger that,” Sonny says, voice finally cracking with sorrow. “I just want to get him back,” he finishes softly.

“We will,” Jason says with confidence, looking at each of them in turn. 

And Brock believes him. He has no doubt that if Jason is convinced they can do this, they can. Together, they can do anything.

“We’re gonna find him,” their leader continues with a fiery spark in his eyes. “And we’re gonna bring him home. No matter what it takes.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. This is a bit of a transition chapter and it ended up longer than I expected.

Ray is beyond exhausted.

The hallways feel like they go on for miles, the walls seeming to close in on him the farther he goes. His legs ache and the rifle he’s carrying weighs down his shaking arms. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping into his eyes and making his sight fuzzy and indistinct. He blinks repeatedly, clearing his vision as another tango comes around the corner. He takes the shot and the man goes down. Ray doesn’t spare a moment to look at his body, instead continuing on as quickly as he can. 

Lights flicker ominously in the long corridor as the building shakes. Bomb? Ray didn’t think they’d have that kind of firepower. But he also didn’t think the facility would be this big. 

He’s been here for _hours_. He knows that doesn’t add up somehow, that the building isn’t that extensive, but it doesn’t matter. 

_He has to get to Spenser._

His brother is depending on him. And that’s the only thing that matters. 

Ray realizes suddenly that his team isn’t with him. They must have fallen behind or taken a different path. 

Ray is truly alone and this heavy responsibility falls solely on his shoulders.

He takes out another man - this one with a menacing stance and at least eight feet tall - and then turns another corner. 

There’s a bright beam of light coming from one of the cells ahead, like a beacon guiding him. Ray knows instinctively that’s where Spenser is. 

“Clay??” he yells, as he sprints the rest of the way. 

The door is ajar and he yanks it fully open. Euphoria washes over him as he sees a familiar mop of blonde hair nestled in the bed attached to the corner of the room. It’s just like Spenser to be sleeping peacefully while his teammates bust their asses to find him. 

Ray rushes forward, grasps Clay by his blanket covered shoulder, and rolls him over. 

Every ounce of air leaves Ray’s body when he sees the perfectly placed bullet hole in the center of his friend’s forehead, edges smooth and a small rivulet of blood seeping out. 

“No, no no,” he gasps out, falling to his knees. “Clay?” The younger man’s skin is still warm, the leaking blood fresh. His eyes are closed on his ashen face.

_He’s too late._

Clay’s been held captive for _months_ and when Ray finally finds him, he’s only seconds too late. 

So close. But not close enough.

Ray bows his head, trying to steady his breathing and process the unfairness of it all. 

Fingers suddenly grasp his forearm, burning like his flesh is going to melt away. He looks up to see Clay staring at him – those intense, soulful blue eyes piercing right into him – blood trickling in a crimson trail down his nose from the wound on his head. 

“Why didn’t you help me?” he says in a shattered voice, sounding nothing like the cocky, confident young operator who crashed into Bravo team’s world a few years ago. 

“I…” Ray doesn’t know what to say, the weight of the guilt crushing.

“I waited for you,” Clay continues accusingly. “_And you never came!_”

Ray jerks awake with a gasp, choking on air as it forces a painful path into his lungs. His heart jumps as it beats wildly, trying to burst straight out of his chest.

He roughly yanks his arm away from the fingers that still clasp it tightly.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay.” A familiar voice cuts through his panic, soothing and strong. “Ray?” 

The voice grounds him and pulls him back to the waking world. He looks up to see Trent’s deliberate gaze, observing him with cautious concern.

“Sorry,” Ray lets out. He feels a bit nauseous, and he isn’t sure if it’s from the swinging of his hammock or the remnants of the dream. He squeezes his eyes shut, but can’t clear Clay’s deathly pale face from his vision.

“You good?”

“I’m…I’m okay,” he says shakily, embarrassed when he looks up and sees the whole team watching him. Even Cerberus has his head cocked to the side, intense eyes staring him down. “It was just a dream, that’s all.”

“We’re almost there,” Brock offers quietly. “Blackburn wants us ready for a briefing as soon as we land.” 

Ray scrubs his hands over his face as he nods, trying to rub away the last vestiges of the dream. 

It’s been six days since they learned Clay survived the fire. And it’s probably been the longest six days of Ray’s life. Not a minute goes by that he doesn’t think about his brother. His thoughts swing from elation over the news that Clay might still be alive to utter despair that he’s been out there for so long by himself. And in such a horrendous situation. He can’t think about it too much, or he knows he’s going to lash out in some way, do something stupid. 

Ray is far from alone. He knows the whole team is feeling the same thing. And Jason has clearly picked up on it – hell, he has to be experiencing it too. So their team leader has kept them working. 

The team was grounded as soon as the news about Clay came down, not made available for any other missions in anticipation of the one that will bring them to their missing member. So Jason has filled their days with training. Ray isn’t sure how much of it is to prepare them – to keep them sharp – or how much of it is to keep them busy and out of their own heads. 

The night they found out, none of them went home. They went to their cages to get packed up and just never left. It was a quiet evening, but they needed to be together. Ray hadn’t let himself look at Clay’s cage in months. But suddenly he couldn’t make himself look away, imagining the younger man sprawled comfortably inside, telling jokes and regaling them with tales of his exploits before he joined the team. His desire for that vision to be a reality is stronger than anything else in his life right now. It’s all-consuming. 

Ray went through the motions for the rest of the week, working during the day and spending time with the family at night. But everything felt frozen, like none of it mattered while they waited for news.

Finally, after days of endless training, they got the word that Mandy’s team was closing in. Close enough that they wanted Bravo in place and ready to go as soon as they figure out exactly where Clay is. So they’re on their way back to Thailand to meet her. To think Clay’s still there after all this time, that he never even made it out of the country, sends a pang through Ray’s chest every time he thinks about it. He vividly remembers the flight out months ago, staring at the box that was tied down on the plane, feeling Clay’s absence acutely and knowing that nothing would ever be the same. Now he wonders where Clay was at that very moment, as they flew away and left him behind.

Ray rolls out of his hammock, determined to wake himself up and shake the dream. He hits the can, grabs a protein bar and settles in quietly on the bench next to Sonny, anxious to land.

“You good?” Jason asks suspiciously as he drops down on his other side. 

“Yeah,” he says with equal parts annoyance and embarrassment. “It was just a dream. No big deal.”

“No big deal, huh?” His friend gestures to the body of the plane around them. “You usually sleep like the dead in here.”

“What?” Ray shoots his friend an irritated look. “Jay, it was just a dream. It happens.”

“That’s not what Naima said.”

That stops him in his tracks. “Excuse me?” 

“She called me yesterday. Said you’ve been having nightmares,” Jason says pointedly. “And that you won’t tell her what they’re about.” 

Ray feels ice spread through his veins. “Did you -”

“Tell her about Clay?” His friend interrupts before he can finish the question. “No. But I’m not sure why you haven’t.” 

Ray just shakes his head and looks away. He doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“And don’t give me some bullshit about security clearance. I know you tell her everything.”

When Ray doesn’t reply, Jason continues. “She should know. He’s her family too.”

Now Ray’s just annoyed. “No offense, brother,” he bites out. “But I don’t need you telling me what I should and shouldn’t tell my wife.” 

“I’m just saying. She’s clearly worried about you.” 

“I just figure I’ll wait until we have him back,” Ray finally replies, with what he hopes is a convincing air of nonchalance. “No reason to put her through what we’ve all been going through the last few days, you know? And if Jam found out... No, it’s better not to give them…”

“What?” Jason pushes when he trails off. 

“Nothing.” 

“Hope? You don’t want to give them hope in case things don’t go our way?”

That’s _exactly_ what he’s thinking. It’s what he’s been thinking all week. But it’s really about _him_, not Naima or Jameelah. If he gets his hopes up, if he believes they’re going to get Clay back and then it doesn’t happen? He’s not sure that’s something he’ll be able to handle.

They don’t know if they’ll ever find Clay. Or if he’s even still alive. There are too many ‘what ifs,’ and Ray is full of doubts. He isn’t willing to fill himself with that hope, knowing it could ultimately be crushed when they reach the end of this journey. 

“What are they about?” Sonny cuts in. 

Ray is startled by the question, so deep in his head he forgot the rest of the team was even there. “What?”

“The dreams. What happens in them? They’re about Clay, right?” 

“They’re all different,” he sighs. “But they end the same.”

Sonny’s looking at him with expectation. 

“We’re always too late,” Ray finishes, looking down to his feet.

“I’m having them too,” Brock chimes in from where he’s sitting across from them, Cerberus’s head resting on his knee. “He’s always dead. Or, I don’t know. Different, I guess. And he doesn’t want to leave with us.” 

There’s silence for a moment before Brock finishes with a quiet, “I know that’s crazy.”

“Look, I know we’re all struggling here,” Jason says. “It’s been a long week. And we don’t know how long this is gonna take. But we _will_ bring him home. I can feel it.”

Bringing him home is one thing, Ray thinks. But alive and unscathed is something else entirely.

**********

They’re on the ground minutes later, and as soon as the ramp lowers, Mandy joins them on the plane. 

“Gather ‘round, gentlemen,” Blackburn calls out to get their attention. “Ms. Ellis has news.”

“I think we found him,” she says with an exhausted smile. 

Ray’s heartrate picks up and he has to force himself to pay attention to what she’s saying.

“We’ve spent the last week identifying the players in the network and unraveling their web. Unless he’s been moved again – and we don’t think he has been – we believe Clay is being held at a facility about 20 miles from here. We haven’t been able to get eyes on the ground, but satellite images show a small building that we believe may continue more extensively underground.” 

“What is it?” Trent asks. “The place he’s being held.”

“It’s a brothel of sorts, but likely makes any brothel you’ve ever seen look like the Four Seasons. We expect this to be bad. Definitely worse than where he was held before. It caters to the worst of the worst. The people who run these places let pretty much anyone in and don’t ask any questions. They take their money and look the other way. If Clay’s there, he’s still very much in danger.”

“So when do we go?” Jason asks. 

“We’re sending an agent in tonight.” 

“Wait, what?” Jason shoots back. “You said it would be us.” 

“It will be,” Mandy insists. “But first we need to get the lay of the land. See what security measures are in place. Check out Clay’s condition. You know, all those things you guys aren’t usually around for before you get to swoop in to save the day,” she finishes with a small smirk.

“Send one of us in,” Sonny says. “I’ll go.” 

“We can’t. We don’t know what his mental state is. And we don’t know how he’ll react to seeing one of you. We can’t take the chance that he’d give something away. It’s just too much of a risk.” 

“I know how eager you all are,” Blackburn cuts in. “But we need to make sure we do this right. For Clay.”

Mandy nods before continuing. “We have a CIA asset in the region who has a nicely developed cover as a successful businessman with an interest in…the darker side of the sex industry. He’ll go in as a client to take advantage of Clay’s services. Scope out the situation.” 

“What the fuck, Ellis?” Sonny spits. “You’re not sending someone in there to rape Clay.” 

“Of course not. He’ll decide Clay isn’t what he’s looking for once he’s in. He just needs to have enough time to assess the situation.”

“When?” Jason asks.

“He’s on his way now, so I need to go. But I wanted to update you in person.” 

She pauses before finishing, “We’re close, guys. Just a little longer.”

After Mandy leaves, they’re all left with their own thoughts for a few minutes, the support team and the Navy doctor who came along with them moving to the other end of the plane. 

Ray’s been waiting for this moment for the last week, and now that it’s here, it doesn’t feel real. The fact that Clay might be alive, just miles away from where they are this very moment, seems impossible.

“I hate sitting around like this,” Sonny gripes. “The waiting is gonna kill me. I just want to go now. Every minute feels like an hour.”

“What if he’s different?” Brock asks. 

It’s something Ray’s been wondering all week, but he hasn’t allowed himself to spend too much time dwelling on. 

If they get Clay back alive, what comes next? 

Based on the uncomfortable silence, the others have been wondering the same thing. Of course they have. But it’s not the kind of thing they want to talk about. 

Except Brock, apparently. 

“Clay,” the younger man clarifies, as if the rest of the team’s silence comes from a lack of understanding. “After what he’s gone through. What if it’s changed him?” 

Trent clears his throat roughly. “I imagine it has. You don’t go through something like this without it changing you somehow, right?” 

“Do you think he blames us?” Brock continues. “For leaving him?”

Ray shakes his head. It’s just like Brock, their quietest team member, to be the one to force them all to face their fears head on, to bring them out into the open. The younger man has an annoying tendency to suddenly want to talk when the rest of them want to shut down. 

“I think he knows we wouldn’t do that intentionally,” Ray replies, feeling compelled to soothe Brock’s fears even though he's battling the same ones himself. 

“Come on,” Sonny says with an attempt at a chuckle. “He’s gotta be so unbelievably pissed. We’re never gonna hear the end of it.” 

“I hope we don’t,” Brock says with a smile. “I’ll gladly listen to him complain about it for the rest of our lives if it means we have him back.”

“I think we’re all in agreement there,” Jason says.

**********

The CIA agent is simply introduced as Fellows, and Ray dislikes him immediately. 

“It’s him,” the man states calmly, like he’s relaying something as mundane as the weather. “He’s thin, gaunt. He doesn’t bear much resemblance to the photos, but it’s definitely him.”

It’s late morning the day after their arrival, and they’re finally actually _doing_ something. Putting a plan together to go in and get Clay. 

Fellows has described the layout of the building and how to get to the cell where Clay’s being held.

“They assured me he’s being kept ‘compliant.’ I assume that means drugged, because he didn’t even acknowledge that I was there,” the man says in a disinterested monotone. “He was semi-awake, but groggy. He looks unwell. Sick maybe, but it was hard to tell, considering. I didn’t stay long. Just enough to make sure it was him. He’s alone in his cell, naked and chained to the wall. There’s no way in but the door.”

Ray swallows down the bile that begins to rise up his throat. 

Sonny growls, but it’s Brock who speaks up. “You know, you don’t have to talk about him like he’s an animal. He’s a human being. And he’s our _friend_. A little bit of concern wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Actually, it would,” the man snaps back. “My job is to assess the situation absent of emotion. Which is why I went in and not you. It’s my responsibility to provide as many details as I can to ensure you have the best possible chance of safely rescuing your teammate, who happens to be a valuable tier one asset. My concern, or lack thereof, doesn’t play a role. And I’m definitely not concerned with coddling your feelings.”

“How do we get in?” Ray asks bluntly, wanting to keep things from devolving further. 

“Security is heavy. There are guards at the entrance and in the hallways, but I didn’t see any cameras in the cell itself. Frankly, I don’t think they care what happens in there. But they did pat me down on the way in. Absent a full assault, there’s no way you’re bringing weapons in. Or cameras or radios, though you may manage an earpiece. They kept my phone while I was inside.”

“So if we want to go in as clients?” Jason asks.

“They have a menu of sorts that they’ll let you choose from. I was shown photos of six men, detailed with characteristics – eye and hair color, that kind of thing. They did identify him as American. I guess that fetches top dollar. I don’t think they know he’s military,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If they do, they didn’t mention it.”

Ray is relieved when Fellows is finally done with his briefing. The man’s attitude is getting on his last nerve, and as much as he knows they need to have the information, he doesn't want to hear all the gritty details of Clay’s condition. 

“I do hope you get him back,” the agent says on his way to the ramp. “That place? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And I’m not sure how much time your friend has left.” 

“When do we go?” Jason asks as soon as the man is out of sight. 

“Tonight,” Blackburn confirms. “We’re finishing up arrangements with the Royal Thai Police now. They’ll be there to back you up and deal with the other hostages.” 

“Alright,” Jason says. “That means we have a few hours to put a plan in place. Then we’re gonna go get our boy.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter. I really need to get the word vomit under control. 😃

Well, let that lonely feeling wash away  
Maybe there’s a reason to believe you’ll be okay  
‘Cause when you don’t feel strong enough to stand  
You can reach, reach out your hand  
And oh, someone will come running  
And I know, they’ll take you home  
"You Will Be Found" - _Dear Evan Hansen_

**********

Jason already feels naked. 

Launching into a mission where he’ll have no gear, no weapon and no way of communicating with the rest of Bravo or HAVOC isn’t customary. But neither is having to rescue one of your own teammates from a sex slavery operation, so all cards are on the table. 

Even so, he’s dreading having to leave his handgun and radio in the car.

Trent steers the sedan to a stop on the side of the dirt-packed road leading to the target building, and Jason looks at the faraway structure with a sense of foreboding. On the surface, it’s a worn, run down tailor shop. But that’s all just a cover for the real business. 

Knowing Clay is inside makes Jason’s skin crawl. He just wants to bust in there, kill everyone who gets in his way, and rescue his friend. 

But he knows they need to be smart. They have one shot, and they aren’t going to waste it.

It didn’t take them long to decide an assault on the building would be the best way to free Clay and the other hostages. But it isn’t quite that straightforward. Mandy insists the hostages should be safe when the assault begins. That their captors will see them as too valuable to harm. 

But Clay may be the exception. Fellows doesn’t _think_ the people holding him know he’s military, but he doesn’t know that for sure. So if they _do_ know, there is a concern that when the assault begins the guards may retaliate against Clay, blaming him for the situation. 

So Jason and Trent are going in as clients ahead of time. Their objective is to make it to Clay’s cell before everything goes down. They can’t bring weapons in, but they’ll do whatever they have to do to protect him. 

They also can’t bring radios or phones, so they’ll be completely cut off as soon as they leave the car. It’s an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling to have.

But any risk is worth it to get Spenser back. Jason will always be ready and willing to sacrifice his own safety – his own _life_ if necessary – for one of his brothers. 

He feels that conviction now more than ever before. Because he’s the one who lost Clay. It was his responsibility as Bravo 1 to bring his youngest team member safely back home and he didn’t get the job done. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he left him out there alone, to suffer a horrible fate.

Jason hasn’t let the guilt of that crash into him fully. He doesn’t let himself think about it much – the details of what Clay has likely been going through, what he’s had to endure. He feels it lurking, sneaking up on him and waiting to pounce, but he won’t allow it to set in yet. There will be time for that once they get Clay back. 

For now, all of his energy and effort needs to be focused on that one single-minded objective.

What happened to the young man is on him, so he’s going to do whatever needs to be done to get him back.

“Bravo 1, this is HAVOC,” Davis’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Our police partners are in position.” 

“Copy, HAVOC. We’re ready to go,” Jason replies, looking in the side mirror to see the old cargo van that contains the rest of his team. 

Once Trent and Jason have entered the building, Ray, Sonny, Brock and Cerberus will conduct the actual assault, clearing a path to get Clay and the other hostages out. The Royal Thai Police, who are staged a half mile away, will follow.

Trent has just taken his foot off the brake to make the approach to the building when the radio comes alive again.

“Bravo 1, Bravo 4, this is 2. Hold your position,” comes Ray’s voice. “I see what appears to be one adult male exiting the side door and approaching an SUV. Advise we wait for him to leave.” 

“Copy, Bravo 2. Standing by.” 

About fifteen seconds pass before Ray’s voice is back, a hint of tension evident now. “Two more men have exited the building and they’re dragging a third with them.”

Jason squints to see what’s happening in the distance, but in the waning light of the setting sun and without the benefit of magnification like Ray has, the figures are too small and indistinct for him to make much of anything out. 

“Dragging?” he questions, brain scrambling to process the new information. 

“Appears to be a hostage. Male, based on the build. There’s a hood over his head. 

Jason starts to feel a storm churn up in his stomach. He refuses to let this mission be scrapped. They’ve come too far and too much is on the line for complications to get in the way now.

“_Shit_,” Ray suddenly rushes out on a harsh exhale. “I think its Clay.” 

The surge of adrenaline that darts through Jason’s veins is enough to leave him feeling breathless. 

“What the fuck?” Trent asks from his side, alarm in his voice. “Did they get spooked? Why would they be moving him now?”

“Ray?” Jason prompts when his 2IC doesn’t offer anything further.

“It’s Clay,” he replies, far more firmly this time.

“How do you know?”

“I saw the tattoo. The Bravo tattoo. On his arm. It’s him.” 

“How sure are you?” 

“80%,” is the reply, but Ray immediately amends his answer, coming back sounding even more confident. “No, 100%. It’s him, Jay. I’m sure of it.”

That’s all Jason needs. He trusts Ray’s judgement implicitly. Where Jason is often impulsive and reckless, Ray is discerning and prudent. It’s why they work so well together. They balance each other. If Bravo 2 is that certain it’s Clay he’s seeing, then Jason doesn’t have a single iota of doubt that it’s true.

“HAVOC, this is 1,” he keys his radio. “It appears Spenser is being moved from the building. We need a new plan fast. Can you get eyes in the sky?”

“Negative, Bravo 1.”

“They’ve all entered the vehicle,” Ray cuts in. “We don’t have much time here, Boss.” 

“Fuck!” Jason shouts, loudly enough that Trent flinches next to him. “This can't be happening.”

He forces himself to take a calming breath. It’s not gonna help Spenser if he loses his cool now. This is like any other mission, so he needs to treat it as such. Recognize the changing variables and adapt to them. It’s what he does best; what makes this team the best. He needs to weigh his options like he would on any other op. 

But there aren’t many. 

They can follow behind to see where the men take Clay. 

Or they can assault the vehicle. 

“HAVOC, this is 1,” he says as taillights flash on at the back of the SUV. “What are they gonna do if we interdict?”

“If they’re moving him because they sold him, he carries great value for them and they aren’t going to give that up easily,” Mandy replies. “If they’ve been tipped off somehow that you’re coming, they’re likely moving him to keep him alive and in their possession. Either way, I don’t think they’ll kill him, at least not immediately.” 

“You don’t think?” he questions with frustration. “I’m gonna need better than that.”

“That’s what the profile would indicate, though I can’t make guarantees. It’s your decision. But I think they’ll try to get away instead. Fight if they have to.”

Jason squeezes his eyes shut as he sees the SUV ease onto the dirt road, heading away from them. 

“Bravo 3, we’re gonna follow at a distance until we figure out our next move,” he says as he nods to Trent, indicating he should start driving.

“Copy that,” Sonny replies, guiding the van onto the road and falling into place behind them.

“Anyone have any ideas?” Jason asks once they’ve settled in at a safe distance following the SUV. 

“I say we hit ‘em hard,” Sonny speaks up. “Let’s go get him, Boss. They’ve had him long enough.”

Trent nods in agreement from his seat, an intense fire in his eyes.

“We could get him killed, Jay,” Ray chimes in. “It might be easier to get him from wherever they take him.”

Jason doesn’t like either option. The decision is his alone to make, and if he chooses wrong, he might be responsible for getting Clay killed before they ever even have an opportunity to get him back. If he lets them go or follows behind to their destination, there’s no guarantee they’ll have another shot. They have no idea what kind of environment he’s being moved to. Or they could lose track of him altogether.

So he makes a decision and hopes like hell it’s the right one.

“This is our best shot, here on the road,” he declares. “We’re gonna take it. Ray, tell me every detail of what you saw.” 

“The two men who brought him out had handguns,” Ray responds, immediately on board now that their leader has made a decision. “I didn’t notice anything on the first man, but I thought he was a client at first so I wasn’t really looking for it. He’s the driver. The other two are seated on either side of Clay in the backseat. He’s wearing a hood and has his lower arms tied behind his back. He didn’t appear to be ambulatory, lower legs freely dragging in the dirt as they held him from under his arms. That’s how I saw the tattoo.”

“So how do we stop them?” Brock asks once Ray finishes.

Jason is already trying to work that out. The last thing he wants is for this to turn into a shootout while a vulnerable Clay is stuck in the middle, unable to defend himself. The best way to prevent that would be to take out all three men at once. But that would leave the driverless SUV careening down the road with Clay still inside. 

“We take them by surprise,” he finally says, once he’s played out the possible scenarios in his head. “Sonny, you’ll pull up behind the SUV so Ray and Brock can take out our friends in the backseat. Trent and I will overtake the vehicle from the right side. I’ll take out the driver while Trent turns us in front of them to act as a barrier, slow down the momentum.” 

“What the hell, Jason?” Ray barks. “So you’re personally gonna take the impact? Have you failed to notice that they’re in an SUV and you’re in a car? You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Jason looks to Trent in the driver’s seat beside him. The medic is an accomplished driver – probably the best among them – and Jason has seen him do amazing things. Even so, they’ll be putting themselves in an incredibly dangerous situation. And while he’s confident in Trent’s ability, he also knows the man hasn’t spent nearly as much time behind the wheel of a vehicle with right-hand drive, which they’re in now. 

But Trent looks him dead in the eye and nods, backing him completely.

Jason knows it’s a risk. A big one. But it’s the only thing he can come up with that makes sense, and he’s willing to take that chance. 

“If we’re gonna get him back, this is how we do it,” he insists.

“It’s crazy!” Ray shouts though the radio, sounding frantic now. “It’s highly dangerous for Clay too. What if he goes right through the windshield? I doubt they’ve secured him. I don’t want to lose two of my friends in one day.”

“Then give me another option!” Jason shoots back, more harshly than he intends. He’s very well aware of the possible outcomes they face, and he’d love for there to be another plan. But he can’t think of what that would be.

Ray’s silence in return is all the answer he needs. “Exactly,” he says. “We’re doing this.”

“Okay, okay,” Ray placates. “I get it. But Boss, that’s a really tough shot, even for me.” 

Jason knows that’s true. They’ll all be firing from one moving vehicle into another, knowing that if they’re just inches off, they might end up killing one of their closest friends. It’s a lot of pressure. But they don’t have much of a choice. Brock is a good, steady shooter, but precision isn’t one of the highlights of his skill set. If he pulls this off, it’s gonna be the shot of his life. 

“I’m good,” Brock chimes in before Jason can even consult with him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Boss,” the younger man says with confidence. “I can do it. Let’s get him back.” 

Jason pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. He thinks about Clay. And he thinks about the rest of his team. He’d bet on them over those three bastards any day. He knows they can do it.

“HAVOC, this is 1,” he calls in. “We’re going to interdict the vehicle to retrieve Spenser.”

“Copy, Bravo 1,” Blackburn replies, and Jason can hear the thinly veiled anxiety in his voice. “We’ll stand by.”

Jason personally checks with each member of Bravo team to make sure they’re in the right headspace, good to go. Then he gives the signal. 

Trent accelerates his speed as the van does the same behind them. They had been keeping a pretty good distance, following at about 35 miles per hour, and it takes about 30 seconds to catch up to the SUV. It might be the longest 30 seconds of Jason’s life.

“Go, go, go, go” he urges as they finally come up along the driver’s side and push to overcome the vehicle, tires sliding in the dirt. Jason sees the driver look at him with annoyance and then the moment is gone as they move out of eyesight. He turns to see that the van is now positioned directly behind the SUV. He recognizes the silhouettes of Ray and Brock through the front windshield, lining up their shots as Sonny holds the vehicle as steady as he can on the uneven road.

This is it. They’re past the point of turning back. Once they’re a few car lengths ahead of the SUV, Jason lowers his window and gives the order. 

“3, 2, 1. Execute, execute!”

He braces his back against the seat, feet pushed into the floorboards as Trent jerks the steering wheel to the left, bringing them directly into the path of the SUV. He has a split second to register the driver’s shocked face before he empties his entire clip into him, the windshield shattering instantly as the man slumps in his seat. 

Even braced for the crash, the impact is more intense than Jason imagined it would be – like being hit by a semi. The SUV rams into the car with the roaring sound of crunching metal, and Jason has no control over his body as the momentum slams him over the middle console and toward Trent as the car is shoved sideways down the road. It feels like it goes on for an eternity before they come to a gradual stop in a cloud of dust. 

Jason is immediately disoriented, like his brain was just put through a blender and needs to be stitched back together again. His neck aches deeply and he’s trying to breathe through the fire in his chest and side when he registers a voice yelling in his ear. 

“…okay? Jason! …hear me?”

It’s Trent. His fuzzy face comes into view on Jason’s right.

“Hey, are you good?” the medic asks. 

And that’s when Jason remembers where they are and what they’re doing. If Trent is here with him, it means he isn’t with Clay.

“Go!” he coughs out raggedly. “Check Clay.” 

Trent looks at him with hesitation, like he doesn’t know if he should stay or go, but then he’s out the door a moment later. 

Jason shifts cautiously and glass from his shattered window tinkles as it settles around him. He can move all of his limbs and he isn’t pinned in any way, but there’s no chance he’s getting out of the car the way he got in. He’s trying to figure out what to do next when Ray suddenly appears where Trent was a moment before.

“Jason!” he shouts too loudly for Jason’s sensitive but ringing ears. “Are you okay?”

“Good,” he mumbles. “Get me out.”

Ray helps him climb over the center console to crawl out the driver’s side door, and Jason can’t hold in a harsh gasp of pain as his body protests the movement.

At a minimum, he knows he broke some ribs, feeling a familiar sharp, grating stab every time he moves or breathes. 

But he can worry about that later. He needs to get to Spenser. Needs to know he survived the accident. That all of this was worth it.

With Ray’s help, Jason staggers past the SUV toward the van, where he can see Trent and Brock hoisting Clay into the back of the vehicle. The hood is gone from his head and all Jason can see is a tangle of matted, dirty hair. 

He and Ray climb in behind them and slam the door. Sonny has the van in motion before Jason even has a chance to take in his surroundings, wind whistling in through the splintered and bullet-ridden windshield.

Clay is laid out awkwardly on the floor in the middle of the vehicle, face up with his arms still tied behind his back, and Trent is hunched over him. Ray grabs a light to shine down on them while Brock holds Cerberus steady on the one long bench seat, keeping the canine from getting in the way. 

In his crouched position, Jason hobbles over to Clay’s right side opposite Trent, settling on his knees as he finally gets a look at him. At first glance, he doesn’t even think he would have recognized him. His hair is overgrown, unkempt and filthy, and his beard hides much of his too-thin face. His closed eyes are sunken, deep purple smudges standing out starkly beneath them on his sallow skin. 

He absolutely reeks, like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. And Jason will never understand how any human being could look at someone in this condition and want to touch them in any kind of sexual way. It’s revolting. _Sick_.

Considering what Fellows shared about Clay’s accommodations, Jason’s happy to see he’s now wearing what appears to be a thin, flimsy cotton hospital gown. He’s lost most of his hard earned muscle and everything about him seems smaller, though Jason isn’t sure if that’s due to the weight loss or how vulnerable he looks. 

There are new, unfamiliar scars, and wounds in various states of healing scattered on his face and what’s visible of his body. His nose is crooked, like it’s been broken. 

But underneath it all, it’s Clay. A face Jason didn’t think he’d ever see again. And he’s suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He swallows several times and clears his throat to push down the intensity of the relief he’s feeling. He knows Clay isn’t out of the woods. His unconscious state is evidence of that. He looks…_awful_. But he’s here.

“Is he okay?” Ray asks, as Trent’s hands move over Clay’s head, feeling behind his ears, across the base of his skull and up over the crown. 

“I don’t think there’s a head injury,” he replies, focus never leaving his patient. “No blood, I don’t feel any lumps.” 

“Why isn’t he awake?” Brock asks.

“Pretty sure he’s drugged,” Trent says as he pries Clay’s eyelids open to flash a penlight across his pupils. “Hey, Clay? Can you hear me?”

There’s no reaction, and Jason’s gut clenches. 

“Is he okay?” Sonny shouts from the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?”

“Spenser?” the medic tries again, a little louder.

“What can we do?” Jason asks.

“Let’s get the ties off of him so I can examine him better.”

Trent digs into his pack for his shears while Jason starts to roll Clay to his side to access his hands. That finally produces a reaction, Clay bucking sluggishly to try to prevent the movement. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Trent calms in a gentle tone. “You’re alright, Clay. It’s Trent and Jason. We’re just gonna free your hands, okay? That’s all. You’re safe here.”

Jason suddenly finds himself frozen in place, his imagination supplying very vivid reasons why Clay would react so strongly to being rolled over, and it feels like he’s just been hit by the SUV all over again. 

“Jason, I need you to help me, okay?” Trent asks and it snaps him back to the task at hand. “Let’s try again.”

Clay continues to struggle, but they manage to roll him far enough to cut the ties loose before moving him onto his back again. 

“Okay, good,” Trent says soothingly, and Jason doesn’t understand how he can be so calm. “That’s more comfortable, isn’t it? I’m gonna look you over, okay?”

Clay’s eyes are still closed, and he settles back down, seeming to drift off again.

“Jesus,” Trent says on a soft exhale as he runs his fingers over Clay’s left arm. Jason can see the lines of track marks there and looks down to see them on his right arm as well. A glance shows him they’re present on his legs also. 

“He has a deformity to his wrist,” Trent says as he continues to examine his arm. “Like it was broken at some point and wasn’t allowed to heal properly.” 

Jason reaches down to gently rest his hand on the forearm at his side, hoping the touch is comforting. Clay’s skin is dry, brittle almost, and too warm. 

Trent continues to lightly feel around Clay’s body, shifting the gown out of the way to reveal that his side and abdomen are mottled with yellowing, splotchy bruises. Trent gently palpates his chest and belly, declaring that he has broken ribs and expressing concern that his breathing sounds off. But through it all, there’s no further reaction from Clay.

They see each other naked all the time. It’s just part of living and working in each other’s pockets the way they do. But this is different. It feels like such a violation to look at Clay like this. The younger man is in an incredibly vulnerable state, and Jason can’t bear it. He wants to say something, cover him up, but he knows it’s important that Trent be able to examine him properly. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Sonny cranes his head back toward them, desperate frustration evident in his voice as the vehicle swerves to the side. “Is he okay?”

“Sonny, I swear, if you wreck this van I will kill you,” Jason shouts back. “We’ve got this. Keep your eyes on the damn road and drive!”

Clay stirs restlessly at the raised voices, and Trent starts talking to him gently again. “You’re safe Clay. Everything is okay.”

“Tr’nt?” the younger man croaks out, eyes still closed.

The medic leans closer with relief stark on his face. “Yeah, Spense. It’s me, buddy. You’re okay.” 

It’s in that moment Jason realizes how terrified he was that even if they got Clay back physically, they’d be too late to get him back mentally. The simple fact that the kid is able to identify Trent’s voice causes Jason’s eyes to prick with tears. 

Trent seems to be affected the same way, wiping his own eyes as he looks around the van with a small smile on his face. 

“Jason’s here too,” he says. “All your brothers are. Ray and Brock and Sonny. We’ve got you.” 

Clay doesn’t say anything else, so Trent gestures to Brock to let Cerberus loose. “Even Cerb is here to say hello,” he says as the dog eagerly nestles into Clay’s left side, next to his thigh.

Trent gently takes the younger man’s injured arm and settles it onto Cerberus’s back. 

It’s like feeling the dog suddenly makes things real for Clay. His hand feels around for a moment, exploring the sensation, before he takes a ragged, hitched breath. 

And then his eyes slit open and squint straight up at Jason. 

“Jace?” he questions softly, with a surprised tone of complete disbelief.

“Hey, kid,” Jason chokes out, overcome with emotion. “It’s good to have you back.”

Clay shakily reaches up his good hand and Jason grasps it firmly, pulling it to his own chest. Jason’s other hand moves to his forehead, carding gently through his matted hair. 

He can see Clay’s fighting a losing battle over sleep, and he selfishly doesn’t want him to close his eyes. Wants to keep looking into their blue depths forever. Needs to know he’s okay. 

“Go ahead and rest,” Trent breaks the spell. “You’re safe. We aren’t gonna let anything happen to you.”

The tiniest smile pulls at Clay’s lips and then his eyelids flutter closed and he’s gone again.

As Jason shifts to lean against the side of the van, he hears Ray calling an update in to HAVOC. He groans, feeling every movement in a bone-deep way now that the adrenaline surge is fading.

“You okay?” Trent asks, hearing his discomfort. “Do I need to take a look before we get back?”

“I’ve never been better,” he replies truthfully, wiping his eyes as he feels the tears start to leak out.

Brock shifts to settle onto the floor of the van next to Cerberus, setting his hand on the dog’s back next to Clay’s.

“Nice shot, Brock,” Ray compliments from where he continues to brace himself against the ceiling, holding a flashlight to illuminate the space. 

Brock just smiles. It’s the first truly genuine smile Jason’s seen from him in months. 

Jason leans his head back, closes his eyes and listens to the rumble of the van. 

_They got him._

They got Clay back. It’s finally over. 

He doesn’t know what the future holds, for the team or for Clay. He doesn’t know what to expect in the next hour or the next day, week, month or even year. 

He doesn’t know what the young man’s physical, mental or emotional recovery will look like. 

But what he does know is that Clay is finally safe, and this family around him will protect and care for him in whatever way they need to. 

Whatever comes, they’ll face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably should have been two chapters, but I might not be able to write more until after Thanksgiving weekend, and I didn't want to leave things on a cliffhanger. 
> 
> To all who celebrate, have a lovely Thanksgiving! 🤗


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the LONG delay. There shouldn't be any more long gaps like that before the end of the story. And I promise there _will_ be an end...probably somewhere around 15 chapters. This won't drag on forever. 😁

“_Fuck this_. Tell me what’s going on! And where the hell am I taking us?”

Sonny’s enraged voice pulls Trent’s attention away from Clay’s unconscious form on the floor of the van. 

He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the man. Partly because he’s concerned about his condition, but mostly because he can’t believe they actually got him back. That this is actually _Clay_, right here in front of him. His brain doesn’t want to believe it’s real. He’s afraid that if he blinks for too long, his friend might disappear. 

“He’s alive, Sonny,” Trent calls up to the front seat, feeling sorry for the other man. He wouldn’t want to be in the dark either. “Seems to know who we are.”

“Oh, thank God,” he hears the Texan let out in relief. 

“Head to the hospital,” Trent directs, knowing he’s gonna take shit for it. 

“Can’t we just take him home?” Brock asks. 

Before Trent can even reply, Jason starts in. “That’s why we brought a doc along. To treat him. At this point, what’s another 20 hours gonna hurt? I’d rather get out of here. Get _him_ out of here and back home.”

Trent gets it. He does. The only thing he wants to do right now is get Clay out of this country and back to the states where he’ll be safe and protected, with the people who love him. Where he can receive first-class medical treatment in a place that’s comfortable and familiar. 

And he shares the unease of staying in Thailand longer than they have to. They don’t know how extensive the trafficking network is that Clay was caught up in. The chances of anyone coming after him in a public hospital are pretty small, but even the tiniest chance of something going wrong feels like too significant of a risk right now. 

But Clay’s health has to come before any worries or desires Bravo team might have.

“I’m not comfortable risking that until we know for sure he’s okay to make the trip,” Trent finally replies.

“Can’t you make that call?” Ray chimes in.

“No, that’s what a _hospital_ is for,” he can’t keep the slight annoyance out of his voice. “And tests and doctors and specialists.”

Trent’s training is in field medicine. His knowledge and skills are very limited, and sometimes the guys don’t seem to understand that. They think he should have all the answers and the capacity to fix anything, but that’s not how it works. Sure, he can patch up wounds, control bleeding, and carry out basic procedures to try to keep people alive. But his ability ends there. There’s no finesse in what he does. It’s often harsh and brutal and dirty and necessary. 

This isn’t that. 

There’s simply no reason to pass up good, decent medical care when they can swing it. And he refuses to make a bad decision here. Not when they finally got Clay back. They need to do this right.

He can tell Jason is about to start up again, so he continues before he has a chance.

“I’m not a doctor, Jason,” he states firmly. “I can tell you he’s malnourished and dehydrated. That he has broken ribs. A broken wrist, broken nose. But those are just the obvious. I have no idea what else might be going on. His temp is too high, pulse is too low. Clearly there’s an infection somewhere, and I’m afraid it’s in his lungs, because his breathing is shit. His lack of consciousness could be because he’s drugged, but it could be something else entirely. _I don’t know_.”

Clay stirs again, and Cerberus shifts farther up the side of his body with a whine, nuzzling his snout into the man’s neck. Clay grasps his hair, obviously taking comfort in the familiar feel of the canine, even in his altered state. 

“They’re gonna need to figure out what he’s been dosed with,” Trent continues, observing the sluggish, uncoordinated movements. “Cause if he’s been taking it long term, and it looks like he has, it could have all kinds of impacts – his liver, kidneys…_everything_ needs to be checked. And do you want him going into withdrawal from whatever the fuck this is while we’re out over the ocean?”

“Okay,” Jason concedes with a bow of the head. “Ray, call it in. Find the best hospital and have Dr. Bergose meet us there.” 

The wind whistles and whips through the damaged windshield as the van continues to noisily rumble down the road, and Trent takes the opportunity of a lull to really look over at Jason. His team leader is holding himself awkwardly, and Trent knows he needs to be looked at. Pain lines stand out around his eyes and mouth. 

He can’t believe they pulled that rescue off. It doesn’t surprise him at all that Jason was so willing to sacrifice himself in that way. Desperation can make people do crazy things. And Trent was feeling that same desperation. They all were. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was getting Clay back. It kind of scares him how all-consuming that drive to help his friend was. 

He’s just happy it worked. That they didn’t find themselves in a worse situation, with multiple men down.

One of Trent’s worst fears is losing an injured brother in the field. The possibility crosses his mind every time they go out on an op. The thought of one of these men he cares for so deeply slowly dying in front of him while he tries and fails to help is something he thinks about a lot. It’s hard to imagine the guilt that would come along with the weight of it. It’s a nightmare he’s played out in his dreams countless times, but he’s been fortunate in the real world, where it counts. 

Nate and Adam are the closest he’s come to that scenario, and with both of them, he knew immediately that they were beyond help. Their deaths came too quickly. 

There’s a different sort of guilt involved with what’s happened to Clay. He had an injury that day – a busted knee. One word from Trent and he never would have been in that building at all. Trent has struggled with that one decision a lot over the last few months. Intellectually, he knows that a thousand different factors came together to allow what happened to happen. It’s not just about the decision he made. 

But the simple fact remains – if he had benched Clay like he wanted to, the younger man wouldn’t have been with them that day. And none of this would have happened.

“Real?” Clay heaves out on a croak, pulling Trent’s attention back to the here and now. He looks down to see the younger man staring at Brock, his gaze then shifting to Ray above him and then Jason on his other side before settling on Trent. 

His eyes are squinted and pain-filled, and it takes a moment for Trent to realize what he’s asking.

“Yeah, we’re real, Clay.”

“S’nny?”

“He’s here too. He’s driving. We’re all here.”

Clay closes his eyes again, and Trent directs Ray to sweep the flashlight away, realizing that even the faint, indirect beam seems to be too bright for his light-sensitive eyes. 

Trent reaches out to gently lay his hand on Clay’s chest, unsettled by how heavily he’s breathing. How much he seems to be struggling to simply pull air in. 

His eyes open again before his gravelly voice asks, “dream?” 

“You aren’t dreaming, Spenser,” Jason chimes in, leaning closer again. “This is real. We got you away from them. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”

Clay hitches a rough breath and squeezes his eyes shut once more, a tear slipping out and trailing down the side of his face into his hair. 

“Thank you,” he rasps in a faint whisper. 

Trent has to turn his head away, emotion choking his throat and getting the best of him. He digs through his pack to occupy himself.

“That’s what brothers do, right man?” Brock offers from his side. “We’re just happy to have you back. It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Sorry it took so long, brother,” Ray adds, and Trent can hear the thickness in his voice. 

A few moments go by in silence as Clay continues to pet Cerberus. His movements are still sluggish, but he seems to be gaining more awareness as time goes by. 

His chest heaves slightly, a small cough working its way out, leading into another and another. “Don’t feel good,” he groans, trying to catch his breath. 

“I know,” Trent makes sure to keep his voice calm, even as his concern increases. “We’re taking you to the hospital. Gonna get you checked out and make you feel better.” 

Clay nods slightly, and that reinforces to Trent that he made the right decision insisting that they go for immediate treatment. The Clay he’s always known would have stubbornly fought him tooth and nail – insisted he didn’t need to go; that he was fine. 

This Clay doesn’t have the energy to argue. Or, even scarier, maybe he just knows he needs the help. 

He shifts with a grimace, pain evident on his face. 

“Can you tell me what hurts?” Trent asks, hoping to get a good idea of what they’re dealing with. 

“Everything,” is the reply, a bit more slurred now. 

“Your wrist?” 

“Not anymore,” he says as his eyes squeeze tightly shut again. “Breathe.” 

“It hurts to breathe?”

Clay only nods. 

“Yeah, I think you have some cracked ribs. We’ll check out your lungs too.” 

Trent doesn’t have a stethoscope with him, and the movement of the van is too loud anyway, but if he was able to listen clearly, he suspects he’d easily hear the telltale rales of pneumonia in Clay’s lungs. And in his severely weakened state, that’s definitely bad news. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, a little surprised Clay hasn’t asked for anything. “Thirsty?”

He shakes his head no and Trent nods. He runs his hand over Clay’s face and down his neck to his chest, feeling far too much warmth radiating from the younger man’s skin. It’s enough that he should be shivering with the fever right now. But there’s none of that. It’s like his body doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do, how it’s supposed to react to the sickness and trauma raging within. 

“Do you know what they were giving you?” Trent asks, knowing that’s going to be important information once they get to the hospital. 

Clay just stares at him blankly, like he doesn’t understand the question. 

“They gave you something,” Trent clarifies. “An injection? It probably made you sleepy. Do you know what it is? Did they ever say?” 

He shakes his head slightly, eyes growing larger as they flit away. He looks worried. Fearful maybe. It’s an expression Trent doesn’t ever want to see on Clay’s face.

“Okay, that’s okay,” he soothes. “We’ll figure it out.”

There’s a lot they’re going to have to figure out. Not just what’s going on with Clay physically, but what actually happened to him for the last four months. How he got out of the burning house in the first place and how he ended up in that hellhole he was wasting away in. 

How they managed to fail him so horribly and completely. 

“Show her,” Clay coughs out, on the verge of sleep again. 

“Show her?” Brock asks. “Who’s her?”

The younger man shakes his head. His good arm shakily reaches up to his head, tugging weakly at his hair. 

“Shower?” Ray asks. “You want a shower?”

The ability to speak seems to have left him and he nods weakly.

Trent actually chuckles. He has no doubt his friend wants a shower. Clay stinks to high heaven, and he’s absolutely covered in grime. He’s usually pretty fastidious about his hygiene, and Trent feels a surge of relief at the simple sign that underneath everything that’s going on, it’s definitely still the Clay they know and love in there. 

“We’ll make sure you get cleaned up,” he assures as Clay drifts off again. 

They arrive at the hospital only minutes later, and Blackburn and Dr. Bergose are already there to meet them. Clay is quickly moved to a gurney and swept into the emergency room. Blackburn is permitted to go along with him, and the rest of them are left standing at the entrance.

It doesn’t take long before the hospital staff shoos them into a private waiting room. It’s nice to have a space to themselves, but Trent suspects it’s not generosity on the hospital’s part. Five large, intimidating American men hovering and pacing in their ER with an unsettled dog isn’t exactly a good look. 

“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do.” Ray shoots at Jason with a huff once they’re alone in the room. “And that’s in a really long line of incredibly stupid things.”

“It worked,” Jason shrugs with a wince, as Trent directs him to sit in a chair so he can finally take a look at him. 

“I can’t believe you went along with that!” Ray directs to Trent. “It could have gone so horribly wrong.” 

“Well, Ray. It didn’t,” Jason snaps back. “And we got him back. That’s all that matters.”

“Someday you’re gonna tell me why you’re so determined to get yourself killed.” Ray collapses into a chair with a sigh. “Man, watching that car drag you two along the road… I think it took a good five years off of my life. Don’t ever do something like that to me again.” 

“Take a deep breath,” Trent instructs, feeling along Jason’s side. 

His friend groans on the inhale, needing to take a minute to catch his breath.

“Couple broken ribs,” Trent confirms what he’s sure Jason already knows. “Probably a mild concussion. Normally I’d tell you to go to bed for a couple days, but I’m not gonna waste my breath. I know better. But you _are_ gonna let them examine you. Get some x-rays.”

Jason just rolls his eyes. 

“When can we see him?” Sonny asks. “Did he seem okay? What do you think we’re dealing with?”

“I think he’s very sick,” Trent says. “But he was lucid and familiar with who we are and what was happening, and that’s more than I expected.”

“What happens now?” Brock asks. “When can we take him home?”

“We just need to wait to hear what the doctors say.”

As if on cue, Dr. Bergose enters the room. He starts up before any of them can even ask for an update. “It’s good you found him when you did,” he says gently. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, and he’s very weak. He's fortunate that he was so strong and healthy going into this. We’ve started him on IV antibiotics to fight the infection. We’re waiting on some blood work and we’ll be doing some more tests shortly.”

“Can we see him?” Sonny cuts in, and Trent can hear the desperation in his voice. He knows how close the two men are, and he knows how badly Sonny wants to see his friend. The last four months have taken a huge toll on the Texan. 

“Briefly,” the doctor replies cautiously. “Lieutenant Commander Blackburn is in with him. No more than two others at a time for now.” 

The doctor somehow convinces Jason to get some x-rays done, and Ray decides to stay to make sure he goes through with it. Brock can’t bring Cerberus into the treatment area, so that means Trent and Sonny get to visit Clay first. 

When they arrive in the small, dimly-lit room, Eric is sitting by the bed, speaking quietly. He looks shaken, and Trent can understand. It’s hard to look at Clay. To imagine all that must have happened to bring him to this point. Trent refuses to let himself speculate on the details for now. There will be time to deal with all of that later. Right now, they just need to support Clay so he can get better. Whatever he needs.

He takes a quick glance at the monitors behind the bed as he moves closer, also taking in the various bags dripping into the IVs. An oxygen mask dwarfs and obstructs Clay’s face. Between the mask, the sunken cheeks and the overgrown hair and beard, only his eyes are left to identify him as their youngest teammate. But the familiar blue depths are infused with exhaustion, glazed over with a glassy sheen that you only find in the very ill. 

He somehow looks even worse than he did in the van. 

Sonny stands, pale and stock-still in the doorway, taking in the scene like he’s afraid to move. He finally approaches slowly, and Clay’s eyes track him listlessly as he crosses the room. 

Just as Sonny reaches the side of the bed, Clay starts coughing. It’s only a few coughs at first, but he doesn’t seem to be able to catch his breath. 

“Clay?” Sonny asks, voice soaked with worry. 

“Clay, look at me,” Trent instructs as panic starts to mount in the younger man’s gaze. He follows the instruction, eyes jerking from Sonny to Trent and focusing in on him. 

“Breathe with me, okay?” 

Trent demonstrates a steady pattern of breathing for his friend to mirror. He can see how hard Clay tries, but he can’t match it. Every time he makes an attempt, it sets off even more coughing. And the coughing has turned into gagging. 

Trent notices his lips shading to purple just as the alarms start going off behind his head. 

“We need some help in here!” Trent calls out the door, as he rolls Clay onto his side, pulling the mask off to make sure his mouth and throat are clear. 

He can hear Sonny’s panicked voice questioning what’s going on as doctors and nurses flood into the room, talking about intubation and ventilators. 

Trent blocks it all out to focus on Clay. He grasps his good hand and leans down so he’s right in front of his friend’s face. “Clay, they’re gonna make you sleepy and give you a tube to help you breathe, okay? It will help, I promise.”

Clay is aware enough to look scared…_terrified_. It’s not a look Trent is used to seeing from the confident, cocky young man who’s always determined not to show weakness, and it shakes Trent to the core. 

“Just look at me,” he manages to keep his voice steady through his own panic as Clay continues to struggle. “Try to relax.”

It feels like an eternity, but it’s only seconds before Clay falls unconscious, his eyes remaining locked on Trent’s up until the last moment, when they drift peacefully shut.

They’re all quickly removed from the room, and Trent stands with Eric and Sonny in the hallway, working to get his own breathing under control, shaking from the sudden adrenaline rush. 

“What...” Sonny chokes out, looking shell shocked. 

“They’re gonna help him breathe while he can’t do it on his own,” Trent tells him. “It should give his lungs and his body a chance to heal.” 

He knows what he’s saying is true, but it doesn’t make the horrible situation any easier to swallow. Clay is one of the strongest people Trent knows, but there’s only so much someone can take, and he’s afraid they’re dangerously close to a line they won’t be able to bring him back from.

Trent doesn’t believe life is cruel enough to bring Clay back to them only to take him away again so quickly. 

But how much more can the man possibly endure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here and reading, THANK YOU! 
> 
> I'm sorry I'm being very mean to poor Clay, but things are going to look up from here.  
Physically anyway. 😉  



	12. Chapter 12

Sonny wakes with a start and it takes a moment to get his bearings. 

He’s slouched painfully in the now-familiar hard, blue, plastic chair in Clay's ICU bay at the Naval Medical Center outside of Virginia Beach. His back is on fire and his neck and legs ache; arm tingling with pins and needles from the loss of circulation the cramped position created. 

There’s one of those cushy reclining chairs in the corner, but instead Sonny chooses to sit closer to the bed, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest. By being able to hear him breathe. Knowing he’s alive and still with them.

Sonny’s exhausted. He knows every member of Bravo is. They’ve had Clay back for a few days now, and none of them have been gone for more than a few hours at a time. 

But Clay has been improving, and Dr. Bergose seems encouraged by his progress. He has a long recovery ahead of him, but they're at a point where he's fully expected to survive. And the relief of that is immense. They even took him off the ventilator a few hours ago, once they confirmed he was able to breathe steadily on his own. Now they're slowly pulling back on his sedation. 

The room is dimly lit, bright afternoon sunshine muted by the heavy curtain pulled across the window. It feels gloomy, but it’s meant to ease Clay’s transition back to wakefulness - protect his eyes, which they don’t think have been exposed to natural light for some time. It’s such an awful thought, that his existence was dark not only figuratively, but literally.

Sonny leans forward to study Clay’s face. He thinks there’s a bit more healthy color shading the man’s cheeks now, another sign that he’s improving. Sonny’s so thankful the breathing and feeding tubes are gone. They made Clay look so helpless. Like he was on death’s door, barely hanging on by a thread. 

Now he looks small and vulnerable. He’s clean shaven and his hair’s been cut short. It makes the stark lines of his face stand out, features appearing fine and delicate. There are still shadows under his eyes, where his long, sweeping lashes gently rest. 

He looks _so damn young_ it makes Sonny’s heart ache. 

Over the last few days he’s studied every part of Clay that’s visible, searching for clues to the mystery of his torment. 

Looking at his wrist makes Sonny squeamish, but the doctor assures them it should be an easy surgical fix once Clay’s a bit stronger. They’ll need to re-break it to allow for a proper, supported healing position this time. Sonny wonders what could have happened to cause enough force to break it in such a way, and he’s incensed that Clay’s captors didn’t do anything to treat such an obvious injury. He's thankful it isn't Clay's dominant arm, and that there doesn't seem to be any muscle or nerve damage. 

His nose has been reduced, now only a slight curve and bump left as evidence of the break. The nurse said it was an injury they typically see from a bar fight, implying he’d taken a punch directly to the face, and it makes Sonny proud and sad at the same time. It means Clay was _fighting_, not that he had any doubt that would be the case. Clay Spenser doesn’t take anything lying down. But it also means he had something – _someone_ – to fight against, and thinking about that fills Sonny with a rage he doesn’t have an outlet for. 

Sonny has spent hours looking at his arms, their hard-won muscular definition nearly completely gone now, injection marks marring the pale skin instead. He wonders how many times Clay was subjected to the drugs they pumped into him. And why? Was it because he fought his captors and incapacitating him was the only way to gain control? That wouldn’t surprise Sonny in the least. Or was it solely to keep him ‘compliant,’ as Fellows described, so people could do unimaginable things to him?

That path takes Sonny to a dark place. Because as unimaginable as it may be, his mind insists on imagining it anyway. He knows Clay would fight like hell before he would let anyone touch him in that way, likely kill anyone who tried as long as he was capable. So if they drugged him to force his compliance, that would mean Clay was completely defenseless while it was happening, with no control over what was done to him or how he reacted. And that thought forces a wave of searing heat through Sonny's veins. 

As much as he tries not to think about it, his mind won’t stop taking him there –  
How often did it happen?  
Was Clay aware at all in the moment?  
If he was, did he pray he wasn’t?  
How did he cope in the aftermath?  
What kind of sick people would want to do something so horrific to another human being? 

And then there’s the question he always eventually comes back to, without fail. 

_Will Clay ever be the same again?_

Sonny leans back in his chair and closes his eyes with a sigh. There’s so much they still don’t know. He just wants to talk to him, and he’s willing to sit here until that happens.

He's missed his best friend terribly, and while the rescue was absolutely a success, Sonny's a little bitter that he's the only Bravo member who didn't get a chance to connect with Clay. It's just his luck that he was stuck driving the van when the rescue went down. And then Spenser took a turn for the worse once they reached the hospital. The guys have assured him that while Clay was in rough shape, he was aware of what was going on. That he even asked about Sonny. When he heard that, the Texan's eyes pricked with tears. 

It's still hard to believe Clay's alive. That he’s right here with them and they actually get to have him back in their lives, whatever that means. It took Sonny so long to accept that he was gone, and now his brain can’t wrap itself around the idea of Clay slotting back into his life to fill those places that have been a dark void since he’s been gone. 

Sonny’s constantly afraid he’s gonna wake up to discover this was all a cruel dream and that Clay is really dead after all.

He doesn’t think he’d survive going back to that feeling of life without Clay. During that time, Sonny certainly had his ups and downs. Some days it was a struggle to even get out of bed, particularly in the beginning. The stunned disbelief and lack of motivation or purpose left him floundering.

Down time is not something Sonny handles well. He functions best when they're spun up, training rigorously or on deployment. When he's home, stuck in civilian life, things don't seem to click for him. It's not where he feels comfortable. True home for him is being out there with his brothers, fighting the good fight. 

So when one of those brothers was cruelly ripped away from him, and there was no mission to focus on, Sonny was completely lost. He drank to cope and he knows it was too much, even for him. Lisa was a lifesaver in those early days. He seriously doubts he'd still be alive if it wasn't for her steady presence. She didn't try to coddle him or force him to face his demons. She simply supported him and let him just be. And whether that was the right approach or not, he's thankful for it. He knows how devastated she was over the loss of Clay, but even in the midst of her own despair, she focused on Sonny’s wellbeing. He knows he doesn’t deserve her, but he’s infinitely grateful for her. 

The other guys were also a help during that time, but they were each dealing with their own trauma. It felt like the team had been picked up and shaken. They were still Bravo. That would never change. But when the dust started to settle, it didn't settle back where it had been before. Things felt different, and Sonny doesn't do well with different. 

Clay's absence was _painful_. 

Sonny didn't realize until his friend was gone just how thoroughly the kid had managed to worm his way into every part of his life. They'd only known each other for a few years, but Clay had truly become the best friend Sonny’s ever had. 

He’s lost other teammates, but Clay’s death felt different. There was just something so wrong about losing him the way they did – on what should have been such an easy mission. He was there one moment and then just gone the next. 

The fact that Sonny was the last one to see him that night continues to haunt him. He's spent hours wondering how things could have gone differently; what _he_ should have done differently. If he had stayed to help free that final hostage would Clay have gotten out in time? Or would they both have been caught inside? 

The constant questions aren't gonna help anything, so Sonny pulls himself out of his head, scrubs a hand across his face and looks over to the bed. He's startled to see Clay's eyes open, staring right at him. It unsettles him for a moment until Clay blinks, breaking the spell. 

"Hi -" Sonny lets out in a high-pitched startle. 

_Smooth, Quinn. Real smooth. Hi??_

Clay simply stares at him.

Sonny gives it another try, voice much more even this time. "About time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty."

Clay finally breaks the intense stare and opens his mouth slightly like he’s going to speak, but then seems to think better of it. 

"Uh, hang on," Sonny says, jumping to his feet. “Let me get something for you to drink.” He fumbles with the plastic water pitcher on the small side table, placed there in preparation for Clay's return to awareness. 

"They said you can take small sips, but only a little at first," he says as he lowers the straw to Clay's mouth. He drinks until Sonny makes him stop, gently pulling the straw away. 

"Thanks," Clay says with a gravelly voice that makes Sonny wince. But hands down, it’s the best sound he’s heard in months. 

Then there's silence.

Suddenly, Sonny has no idea what to say. 

He's spent days desperately waiting for Clay to wake up so he can talk to him, and he's completely frozen now that the opportunity is here. 

"I can hear..." Clay starts and trails off as he catches his breath, "you thinking from here." 

"Sorry, don't really know what to say," Sonny replies with a sheepish shrug. "It's just really good to see you."

"You too," Clay says simply. But there isn’t much emotion behind it. Not the kind Sonny’s feeling, anyway. It sounds more like they’re reuniting after a weekend away from work. 

Clay’s eyes flutter a bit and Sonny thinks he's about to fall asleep again, but then he asks, "How long?"

“About four and a half days. They sent you back on a med flight two days ago, once you were stable enough.”

“No -” Clay shakes his head before huffing out a weak cough, and Sonny gives him some more water.

"How long was it?" he asks this time, swallowing painfully, and Sonny realizes he’s asking about his captivity. 

And he doesn’t want to tell him. 

The number’s too big – it’s evidence of their failure to realize what was going on; to rescue their teammate sooner.

But Clay’s eyes are drilling into him, groggy but expectant. And he deserves to know.

"Um, four months,” Sonny finally answers softly. “126 days." He knows the exact number, because he had to live through every single one of them. 

Clay nods, eyes moving to the ceiling. “I lost count,” he says quietly. And it just sounds so _sad_. 

Sonny feels like he’s been doused with ice water with the abrupt realization that Clay had to live through those 126 days too. Of course he already knew that theoretically, but now he’s confronted with what it really means. 126 days of waiting for his brothers - for _Sonny_ \- to come rescue him and take him home, while horrible things were happening to him. 

And it took too long. 

_Far too long._

Sonny suddenly needs to explain. He can't wait one more minute.

"Clay, I’m sorry," he rushes out. "I’m so sorry, buddy. We thought you were dead. We never would have left you there if we’d known. _Please_ know that." 

Clay's eyes turn back to his, and Sonny can't quite distinguish the expression in them. There's exhaustion mixed with pain and maybe confusion, but Sonny's afraid he might also see an undercurrent of accusation.

"Sorry isn’t enough," he continues quietly, not able to find the words to sufficiently repent for the magnitude of their failure. "If we had known, there’s no way -"

"It's okay," Clay cuts him off with a small, forced smile, sounding sleepy now. "Just glad you came."

Sonny's about to ask what happened that night, how Clay escaped the fire, when Dr. Bergose enters the room.

"Mr. Spenser," he says when his eyes connect with Clay’s. "It's good to see you awake. Do you remember me from when you were brought in? I'm Dr. Bergose, but you can call me Nate."

Clay nods, looking at the Navy doc a bit warily as he pulls the stethoscope from around his neck and places it gently against Clay's chest. 

It's subtle, but Sonny doesn't miss his slight flinch or the way his eyes quickly dart to the corner of the ceiling as the man leans over him.

"He had some water," Sonny says stupidly, the unsettled energy radiating from his friend suddenly compelling him to try to draw some of the doctor’s attention away.

"That's good,” Dr. Bergose replies genuinely, attention never leaving Clay. “We've been giving you fluids intravenously, but I'm sure it felt good to soothe your throat a bit. Sorry about the tube. But it allowed you some nice healing time, taking the strain off of your lungs. I know it might not feel like it, but you really are progressing remarkably well.”

Sonny’s relieved to hear it, and he watches as Clay nods slightly. The pain lines around his eyes are deepening the longer he’s awake, and Sonny just wishes he could speed up the healing process for him. Wishes there was something he could do to make him feel better.

"I'd like to talk to you about some of the tests we’ve run,” Dr. Bergose continues kindly, eyes never leaving his patient. “And how I think we should move forward with your care.”

The doc finally turns to Sonny then, “I’d like to speak with Clay alone, if you don’t mind giving us some time.”

Sonny expects Clay to say it’s okay; that Sonny can stay. He figures he’ll actually want the support. 

Instead, his friend quickly glances at Sonny and then darts his eyes away again, his fingers playing with the sheet. 

Clay would never say it, but Sonny can tell he doesn’t want him to stay. It feels like a punch to the gut, the realization that Clay trusts the doctor he doesn't even know more than he does his own best friend.

“Sure,” Sonny forces out, trying to keep his voice even, like it’s not a big deal. “I’ll let the guys know you’re awake. I know they can’t wait to see you.”

**********

By the time Dr. Bergose finishes with Clay, and Sonny makes it back to his room, the younger man is asleep again. So Sonny takes up residence in the empty waiting room, biding his time until the rest of the team arrives.

Trent and Brock show up first. 

“Hey, man,” Brock greets, sinking into the chair across from him. “How is he?”

“He was awake,” Sonny shrugs, staring at his shoe as it scuffs along the cheap wood vinyl floor. “But tired. Maybe not quite himself yet.” 

Sonny isn’t sure how concerned he should be about that last bit. He’d been expecting a big, grand reunion. Had built it up so high in his head. Instead, his brief time with Clay felt uncomfortable. Out of sync. Like when you go in for a hug but the person you’re greeting reaches for a handshake instead. And that’s not what their relationship is at all. Not what their relationship _was_, anyway. 

For now, Sonny’s gonna hope it’s because of Clay’s physical state. He’s sick, tired and clearly in pain, not to mention all the drugs he’s on that could be messing with his system – antibiotics, pain meds, nausea drugs, whatever they’re giving him to ease him off of the shit concoction those bastards had been forcing into him against his will. And that’s just what Sonny knows about. Clearly there are things the doctor isn’t sharing.

“Doc kicked me out,” he says with annoyance. “Wanted to talk to him alone.”

“That’s understandable,” Trent eases into the chair next to him. 

“Can’t you talk to Bergose?” Sonny whines. “Figure out what’s going on?”

“It’s not really my business.”

“Sure it is. We’re his team. You’re our medic.” 

“And if it looks like he’s going to operate again, then I’m sure I’ll be brought up to speed.” 

“Of course he’s gonna operate again,” Sonny bites back, offended on behalf of his friend.

“Sonny, Clay has a lot he’ll need to work through first,” Trent says calmly and clearly, like he’s talking to a child who’s being taught a significant life lesson. “Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. When all is said and done, he might not actually _want_ to come back to DEVGRU.” 

The thought of Clay _choosing_ not to come back to Bravo seems absurd to Sonny. He knows him well enough to know that being a SEAL is essential to his existence, just like it is to Sonny’s own. Or Jason’s. There’s absolutely no way he wouldn’t want to go back to operating. 

“Well, maybe if they’d tell us what’s going on, we could help him,” he says, and he knows he sounds childish now.

Trent gives him that _Trent_ look. The one that says he’s being ridiculous.

“I just want to be there for him. He hasn’t had anyone to look out for him in so long. I can’t even…” Sonny trails off, physically aching thinking about Clay, alone and scared, in pain and sick – for _126 fucking days_. “I want to support him. Help him get through all of this.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that, Sonny. And you will help him. We all will. However we can. But he deserves his privacy. Think about where he was. The conditions he was subjected to. What those people _did_ to him. It’s completely understandable that he’d want to process all of that on his own for now. Would you want everyone knowing your business if it was you? All the nitty gritty details?”

Sonny knows he probably wouldn’t. And he knows what Trent is hinting at, even if he isn’t saying it directly. There’s a good chance Clay contracted an STD. Probably more than one. And maybe other infections or physical issues related to the abuse that will need to be dealt with.

“He’s probably embarrassed, too,” Brock adds quietly. “He shouldn’t be, but I think I would be.”

Sonny’s self-aware enough to acknowledge, to himself at least, that Brock and Trent are both right. This isn’t a topic he’d want to share or discuss with his brothers. And he knows that most of his hurt is actually coming from his own personal frustration surrounding his inability to help. 

So he decides right then and there that he’s going to shove his own insecurities and discomfort and desires aside. 

If that means having uncomfortable conversations, he’ll push through it. 

If it means pretending everything is okay, he’ll do that too. 

If it means giving him his space, he won’t like it, but he’ll suck it up.

From now on, he’ll focus solely on being whatever Clay needs him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was supposed to be a whole additional scene to finish this chapter, far more upbeat and positive, but once I finally gave him a POV, Sonny just _would not shut up_ and this got long. So the happier continuation has been pushed to it's own chapter, which I should be able to finish up in the next few days.
> 
> Hope everyone is holding up well for the show's hiatus! We have a long way to go. 😒


	13. Chapter 13

Sonny’s text that Clay is awake comes while Ray is finally coming clean to Naima about what’s been going on. 

He’s filled with nervous energy as she sits down on the couch, and he finds he isn’t able to join her, pacing the living room instead. Knowing Clay is alive and not being able to tell his wife has been a self-imposed, difficult burden. He feels like he’s been lying to her; keeping secrets. 

Secret keeping is nothing new. It’s part of the job, and he knows she understands that. She knew what she was signing up for when they started this life together. But this has felt very different. 

Naima loves Clay and she was devastated by his death, and Ray hates himself a little bit for not being able to summon the courage to tell her sooner. 

“Just tell me,” she says calmly, pulling him out of his head. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t really know where to start, so he simply says, “Clay’s alive.” 

There’s a long moment of utter silence before her expression shifts to wariness, like she thinks Ray may have finally completely lost his mind. 

“What…” she starts cautiously. “What does that mean, Ray?”

“He didn’t die in the fire,” Ray rushes out, finally sinking onto the couch next to her. He can feel the smile spreading wide across his face; knows he wouldn’t be able to contain it if he tried. “He’s _alive_, Naima. This last spin up – we went to get him back.” 

He sees the emotions warring across her face as her mind tries to catch up and make sense of what he’s telling her. He imagines it mirrors the look on his own face when Blackburn shared the news in the briefing room.

He can see the moment it starts to click for her. She pales a bit, a quick exhale escaping her lungs, before gathering herself again. “Wait -” she starts, before stopping abruptly and taking a deep breath. “What happened?” 

“We don’t really know all the details yet. And I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to share anyway. But he’s here now, at the medical center. Has been for a few days.” 

She just stares at him, and he knows she’s waiting for the punch line. For him to say he’s joking or that she’s misunderstanding somehow. 

He continues to beam back at her.

“Oh my God,” she finally gasps out, shaking hands coming up to cover her mouth. 

And then she’s the one up and pacing the room.

“How long have you known?” she finally asks, tears in her eyes.

“Almost two weeks,” he says quietly, feeling painful guilt set in now that he’s seen her reaction to the news. 

He had no right to keep this from her. 

Clay is family, and Ray knows how intensely Naima cares for him. She and the youngest member of Bravo developed a close bond in the few short years following Clay’s initiation into the team. Ray’s no shrink, but he suspects it has something to do with Clay’s unstable childhood and his deep desire to be part of a traditional, nuclear family. Naima filled a sort of hybrid mother/sister role for him, looking after him and including him in family activities in a more thorough and consistent way than she ever did with the other guys.

She deserved to know, and like he does with so many other things in life, Ray let his own fears and insecurities get in the way of allowing that to happen.

“We found out about a week before we got him back,” he continues. 

Naima sits down next to him and rests her hand on his. “Why didn’t you say anything, Ray?” 

There’s no accusation in the question. Just clear concern that Ray chose to carry that weight by himself for so long, and he loves her so much for her gentle compassion and strength. 

“I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

Her eyes widen with sudden realization. “Is that what your nightmares were about?” 

“Yeah, I’m not sure I really believed it. And he was still in danger, so I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

He looks away before closing his eyes.

“Or mine,” he admits quietly. “It’s _still_ hard to believe. Even after seeing him right in front of me, with my own eyes.”

“How is he?”

And that’s the million dollar question. 

Unless he takes a turn for the worse, they know Clay should recover physically. The doctors have been very encouraged by his progress. But Ray’s still full of questions about what the future will hold, so he decides to stick with the basics for the time being.

“He was touch and go the last few days, but he finally turned a corner,” he feels himself getting choked up. “It’s gonna be a long road, but he’ll be okay, Naima.” 

“That’s amazing,” she pulls him into a hug and he just holds her, savoring the comfort of the familiar embrace. He knows the nurse in her must be full of questions, but she doesn’t push, and Ray is more grateful for her than he can even find the words to explain. 

She wipes her eyes as they pull away. “How are the guys?”

“Tired,” is the first word that comes to mind. “But as good as can be expected. Jason nearly got himself killed rescuing him, but it all worked out. It was _so_ worth it. Everyone’s just anxious for him to wake up, to see how he is. It was such a long time. We don’t know…we haven’t really had a chance to talk to him yet.”

As if on cue, the moment is interrupted by the harsh buzzing of his phone, which he pulls from his pocket to find a group text from Sonny. 

_our boys awake_ 👀

Ray stares at the message for a minute, feeling heat pulse through his body as a new bundle of nerves takes root in his stomach. 

“Go,” Naima finally says gently, nudging him out of his head and into action. He’s on his feet and grabbing his keys a moment later.

“I love you,” he says, bending to kiss her forehead. 

“You too,” she replies, as he heads to the door. “And Ray?”

He turns to see her wise, knowing eyes studying him closely.

“Make sure you guys make it about what he needs, okay? One day at a time.”

**********

Clay ends up sleeping for most of the next 24 hours, and by the time he fully wakes again, he’s been moved out of the ICU. And that means the whole team can finally be with him at the same time. 

“Up for some company?” Jason asks, poking his head around the doorjamb, this room much larger than the bay he was in before.

“Yeah,” Clay says with a small smile, and Ray eagerly files in with the rest of the team, settling against the wall across from his young teammate. 

What a difference a day makes.

Clay is propped up in the bed, and aside from a nasal cannula and his IV lines, there isn’t a tube in sight. Some color has returned to his face, his skin looks less dull and dry, and the smudges under his eyes have faded significantly. He still appears tired, eyes a little glassy – feverish maybe – but he looks so much healthier than he did the few days prior. 

The cloud of imminent death that was hanging over him has been cleared away, and he looks like _Clay_ again.

“You look great,” Ray says genuinely, and he responds with a small, self-conscious tilt of the head.

“Thanks,” Clay finally says after a quiet moment, quickly looking around the room at all of them, but not making any real, prolonged eye contact. “For finding me. And for being here. I know I’ve been pretty out of it.” 

He sounds embarrassed, and it’s a weird dynamic – the whole team together like this, but without the seamless, easygoing camaraderie they’re used to. Ray’s trying to think of something else to say to fill the uncomfortable silence when Sonny speaks up first. 

“You slept through your own sponge bath,” he drawls. “Tragic, really. But I enjoyed it for you.”

“_Jesus_, Sonny,” Jason says on an exhale, and Ray cringes, afraid of how Clay will take the joke, concerned that it could backfire and he might shut down.

But instead, Clay _laughs_.

It’s a true, genuine laugh that bursts out of him like he didn’t expect it, heavy and robust enough that it’s followed immediately by a pained groan and a hand quickly moved to steady his painful chest.

Ray winces in sympathy, but it’s the best sound he’s heard in months. A sound he didn’t think he’d ever hear again, and he can feel his own smile grow as they all laugh together.

“Sorry,” Sonny says sheepishly, but Ray can see that the spark has returned to the Texan’s eyes. Like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. “How you feelin’”?

It’s like that small moment of levity releases a weight from Clay too. Some of the tension leaves his frame as he visibly relaxes more deeply into the mattress, raising his eyes to meet theirs. 

“Good,” he says on a cough, and Trent snorts a disbelieving huff. 

“Okay, _better_,” he amends. “My head finally feels clear; it’s been pretty fuzzy. And it doesn’t feel like I’m pulling fire into my lungs every time I breathe, so that’s an improvement.”

“Well, you certainly look better than you did a few days ago,” Brock says.

Clay coughs again and takes a moment to catch his breath before nodding, “Doc says it’s gonna be a marathon, not a sprint. Fucking clichés, I hate them so much. They’re fixing this tomorrow,” he says, indicating his wrist.

“Gonna get you some new chompers too?” Sonny asks. “Not that I’m knocking the gap-tooth look, but not sure it’s gonna get you very far with the ladies.”

Clay chuckles softly and rolls his eyes, seeming to be more and more himself as the minutes go by.

“Speaking of,” Brock cuts in, taking a quick glance at the rest of them, “How did you get out of the house?”

Clay’s look in return is puzzled. 

“The fire,” Jason clarifies. “How did you escape?”

“Fire?” he asks with confusion.

“The night we went after the trafficking –” Jason stops and takes a breath. “When we lost you. How did you get away from the house?” 

“I was dragged out,” Clay says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s when they took me.”

“Who?”

Clay shrugs as his hand moves to rub the side of his face. “I was working on freeing the last hostage when I was attacked from behind. Managed to fight one off – bastard went down – but another hit me hard and dragged me out. I couldn’t get away.”

His forehead scrunches like he’s struggling to remember. “There was a tunnel. In a closet, I think? But my head…things are pretty disjointed after that.” 

“The fight in the house - is that when your teeth got knocked out?” Trent asks.

They’re really just seeking confirmation at this point. Once they realized Clay was missing teeth, they started putting the pieces of what likely happened together. Even without knowing details, it all started to add up – his teeth were somehow left in that room, resulting in the DNA test that left them in the dark for so long. Hearing that an attacker may have been left behind as well sheds even more light.

“Yeah,” Clay confirms, not realizing the magnitude of such a small detail. How much it changed the course of his life. “What fire?”

“The house blew up,” Brock says. “We thought with you in it.” 

“We thought you were dead, brother,” Ray says, wanting to make sure it’s crystal clear to the younger man why they didn’t come for him sooner. “It was…we didn’t know.” 

Clay nods, looking down as he plays with the frayed seam of his blanket. 

“I knew you would have come,” he says quietly. “If you could have. I thought about that a lot.” 

Ray lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He wonders how often Clay thought about them. How often he wondered why his team – his _brothers_ – hadn’t come for him.

They settle into a heavy, but not uncomfortable, silence for a few minutes.

“I was the last one with you that night,” Sonny finally says. “It just feels like I should have been able to do something. Known something wasn’t right.” 

“Actually, I saw Ray,” Clay says, and Ray’s head jerks up to make eye contact with his young friend, heart suddenly trying to burst out of his chest at the unexpected comment. “While I was being dragged out. I saw you at the end of the hall.”

The engine in Ray’s brain revs into overdrive, and memories of being in the hallway that night flood his mind. He pictures himself crouched defensively, all of his attention laser focused on shooting at the tangos outside. His biggest concern at the time was the instability of the weapons surrounding him. If only he’d turned around… 

“But I couldn’t say anything,” Clay continues, frustration coloring his voice. “Wish I’d tried harder. I held onto that image for a long time.”

“I shouldn’t have let you go that day,” Trent says before Ray can even respond. “If I had benched you, none of this would have happened.” 

“You don’t know that. Sure, it wouldn’t have happened to me, but someone still would have been in there,” Clay says without even taking a beat to think the scenario over, and Ray gets the distinct feeling he’s given the subject thought before. “Sonny or Brock maybe. Are they more deserving of what happened than I am?”

That possibility slams into Ray like a ton of bricks. The thought that Clay being safe could have doomed another one of his brothers. 

Sonny would have gotten himself killed, without a doubt. There’s no way anyone would have put up with him for four months. He would have been more trouble than he was worth.

And Brock? That’s not something Ray wants to think about either.

“None of this is on you, Trent,” Clay insists, and he sounds completely genuine. “It’s on _me_. I should have been paying closer attention. I let them get the drop on me, and that was an amateur mistake. I’m sorry.”

“_Stop_,” Jason barks firmly, leaning forward in his chair next to the bed and pinning the young man with his eyes. “Clay, none of this was your fault. Not _any_ of it, you got that?”

Clay stares intently back at him for a beat before looking down at the blanket again, not addressing the question in any way.

Naima’s voice from earlier rings out in Ray’s head - _make it about what he needs, one day at a time_.

“Well, we may not have been there to help you then, but we are now,” he says resolutely. “We’re here for whatever you need, brother.” 

“I’ve always been told I’m a good listener,” Brock says with a smile.

“I’m fine, guys. Really,” Clay says with a shake of the head and a grating cough. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m finally out. I just want to put everything behind me and get back to my life. Back to _normal_.”

The silence lasts a bit too long before Trent asks, “How do you feel about staying with one of us for a while? Just until you’re back on your feet.”

“Really, I’m good. I just want to go home.”

“Well, about that…you don’t have an apartment anymore.”

Clay sort of stares into space for a moment, gears turning as he processes that bit of information, before a faint flush rises up his face. “Of course I don’t. That was stupid, sorry.”

“Stay with me,” Sonny rushes out eagerly. “I spend half my nights on the couch anyway. It’s too damn comfortable. You can have the room. Or the couch. Whatever you want.” 

“Sonny, it’s okay. I’ll figure it -”

“Just for a little while. Until you find your own place.”

Clay bites his lip and then concedes with a soft, “okay, thanks.” 

He suddenly looks very tired and Ray is about to suggest they call it a night when Clay breaks the silence again.

“What about the rest of my stuff?” he asks quietly. “My car?”

It’s not something Ray ever even thought about. They were all so caught up in their overwhelming grief over the loss of Clay that they didn’t even think to question where his possessions ended up. Ash, most likely, but he’s not a topic any of them want to bring up now.

“Your cage is still there,” Jason says. “With whatever you left in it. We haven’t touched it. And we can find out about the rest.”

“Okay,” Clay nods slowly. “It’s stupid to even care. It’s just stuff.”

Ray’s throat tightens and his chest aches for his friend. He can’t imagine how jarring this must feel. Realizing he came back to a world that moved on without him. Those items were more than just ‘stuff.’ They represented the life he left behind. The life that was ripped away from him. And he knows how much Clay loved that car.

“It’s not stupid,” he assures. “We’ll figure it out.”

Clay nods again, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. He gives Ray whiplash when he abruptly changes the subject. “How are the kids?”

“They’re amazing,” he offers, happy to shift to a more comfortable topic. “RJ’s growing like a weed, just wait till you see him. And Jameelah, brother, she’s gonna completely lose her mind when she finds out you’re alive.” 

A genuine smile spreads across Clay’s face. “I can’t wait to see them. And Naima. I missed everyone so much.” 

A yawn quickly overtakes the smile and Jason takes the opportunity to call it a night, ordering him to get some rest.

They say their goodbyes and head to the elevator in silence. Ray’s mind is running at lightning speed, dissecting every minute of the time they spent with the friend they know so well. He was a little reserved - timid perhaps - but Ray figures that's to be expected considering how ill he's been. But he was also lucid, and strong, and determined, and generally seemed..._good_. 

So Ray wonders why a knot is gnawing at his insides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _think_ I'm finally confident enough to declare that there will be three more chapters and an epilogue.  
Thanks so much to everyone who's still reading and leaving such kind comments. You're all wonderful!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m embarrassed by how long it’s taken for me to update. I don’t have a good excuse. I got distracted writing other stuff and just kind of lost motivation here. I'd have ideas and when I'd sit down to write them absolutely nothing would come out. 
> 
> I'm so, so sorry to everyone who was following this story and hoping for a quick update. But I'm definitely planning to finish this thing!

Clay spends another week in the hospital. The guys visit often and purposely work to keep their conversations light.

But it doesn’t really seem like that caution is even necessary.

Sonny’s surprised by how much Clay seems like Clay. He kind of expected the man who returned to be a shadow of his friend, but that isn’t the case at all. Instead, he slides right back into the conversation - into the team - like he was never gone.

They catch him up on the sports world, pop culture and some TV shows they know he follows. Clay eggs the other guys on to tease Sonny about the shirt he’s wearing and his new haircut. And he asks about the current political climate, a conversation Sonny more than happily bows out of and leaves to Trent and Ray. 

As the week wears on, Clay starts to complain about being stuck in the hospital – the bland food, the ever-present nurses waking him at all hours, the lack of productivity – and Sonny figures if he’s that annoyed about the small things, he must be feeling pretty good. 

And he makes it clear he’s eager to return to Bravo. 

Sonny’s immensely relieved to hear it. Ever since his conversation with Trent and Brock when they first got Clay back to the States, Sonny has had a gnawing pit in his stomach thinking about the possibility of Clay hanging up his kit. He knows it’s an entirely selfish concern. He’s happy Clay is alive and back with them, and that _should_ be enough. But Sonny can’t imagine what it would be like to have Clay back in their lives, but not back with the team.

The morning Clay’s finally released from the hospital, Sonny’s there bright and early to pick him up the minute he’s discharged. The nurses seem genuinely sad to see him go, and Sonny’s pretty sure he sees Clay discreetly accept a couple of their phone numbers on the way to the elevator. He still looks way too thin even though he’s traded the hospital garb for sweats and a t-shirt, and the green cast on his arm makes him look like a little kid. Sonny’s tempted to make a joke, but something compels him to hold it in, a small voice in the back of his head telling him it may not be received well.

As they exit the lobby into the parking lot, Clay stops abruptly with a hand on Sonny’s shoulder and closes his eyes, lips slightly parted with his face tilted upward. Sonny is close enough to hear a pleased sigh rush from his lungs. A small smile inches across the younger man’s face, and Sonny realizes with a jolt that it’s the first time his friend has felt the direct sun on his skin in months. It’s a jarring and sobering thought, and it reminds him of how much of life Clay is going to need to reclaim. How much he’s missed. 

Instead of going home, they head to base. Clay moves slowly as they head down the hallway to the cage room, and while Sonny knows he’s still weak and experiencing some pain, he suspects the sedate pace is more to do with taking everything in. 

Clay hasn’t said a word since they left the truck in the parking lot, and once they enter the room he takes a slow, deliberate circuit of the space, like he’s becoming reacquainted with a long-lost friend. Something about Brock’s cage makes him laugh quietly with a shake of the head, and when he pauses in front of Jason’s, he reaches his good hand out with reverence to lightly touch the American flag hanging across the edge of the door.

Clay finally makes it to his own untouched cage, frozen in time since the team came home without him all those months ago. It’s unlocked. Sonny asked Lisa to make sure of that in preparation for their arrival. 

Sonny knows he should move along to his own cage to offer some privacy, but he can’t take his eyes off of his friend. For so long, looking at Clay’s cage filled Sonny with a warring mix of emotions – sadness, anger, reflection, yearning, regret. It was sacred in a way, containing everything tangible they had left of their lost teammate. But even full of his belongings, it always still felt horribly empty. Knowing he’d never see Clay in that space again made it hard to look at most days. He never could have imagined they’d be at this moment, as he watches Clay open the grated door slowly and eventually move inside. 

Instead of the joy he thought he’d feel, Sonny’s brain suddenly supplies an unwelcome flash of Clay in an altogether different kind of cage, and he has to shake his head to try to clear the image. He wonders if he’ll ever get much of an accounting of what Clay went through in Thailand before they realized he was alive and got him back. Sonny feels his own heart rate increase every time he lets himself think about Clay’s rescue. It was a true shit-hitting-the-fan experience, and they’re so lucky it turned out the way it did because it could have gone horribly wrong in so many different ways. It was hectic moments of controlled chaos and sheer terror and reckless determination, quickly replaced by a combination of immense relief, fear, and concern. 

In hindsight, Sonny’s happy they didn’t need to assault the building Clay was being held in. It means he never had to see firsthand what the conditions were. Based on what they expected following their briefing with Fellows, having that lasting image of his friend imprinted in his head likely would have been far worse than the trauma of the rescue they ended up with.

Sonny watches as Clay stands in his untouched cage as if he’s in a trance. He isn’t moving at all, just standing there lost in his own world, and it’s kind of unnerving. The space seems heartbreakingly small when Sonny thinks about the fact that it contains the only possessions Clay has left.

“Have you reached out to Ash?” Sonny tries to keep his voice neutral. The elder Spenser is a complete and utter bastard, but he’s Clay’s father. And he’s a connection to his past. Clay needs as much of that as he can get right now. When Jason told him in the hospital it seemed like Ash had likely inherited his belongings, Clay insisted he be the one to reach out, declining offers from the rest of the team to do it on his behalf.

“Not yet,” Clay jerks out of his stupor, grabbing a duffel and starting to fill it with clothes, a knick-knack or two, books, some pictures. "I will,” he says quietly.

“Do you know…” Sonny trails off, not wanting to start down a path Clay may be uncomfortable with. “Does he know you’re back?”

The news of Clay’s miraculous return from the dead has been kept pretty tight lipped. Partly because command is letting him handle it in his own time, how he’d like, and partly because his death had been announced publicly. They can’t very well announce his return, not if he wants to operate again. 

Besides, the Navy certainly doesn’t want it to look like they make a habit of leaving the country’s most highly trained commandos stranded in the far corners of the earth to be tortured for months at a time. 

Most people actively involved with DEVGRU are aware, but as far as Sonny knows, news hasn’t traveled much beyond that. He hopes it stays that way – offering Clay something that he can have some control over.

“Don’t think so,” Clay replies quietly. “Though I’m not sure he would have bothered to come by the hospital even if he did.”

Ash Spenser is textbook proof that the family you choose can be far more meaningful than the family you’re born into. Sonny understands the concept on a deeply personal level himself, but not to the extent that Clay does. Sonny has memories of a mother who read him bedtime stories and called him Sunshine. And he has sisters who he knows would move heaven and earth for him. While they aren’t blood, Clay has brothers who would do the same. _Have_ done the same. That’s just as important. 

If Bravo is all the family Clay needs right now, that’s perfectly fine by Sonny.

“He’s gonna hear,” he says, knowing it’s a topic Clay still needs to face anyway, before the choice is taken from him. “The teams gossip about personal shit like middle school girls behind the bleachers. You know that well enough.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clay bends gingerly and with a small groan to pick up a pair of running shoes from the corner. “Just need to figure out how I want to do it.” 

Sonny has to fight the urge to step in to help him pack his bag. If the last week has shown him anything, it’s that Clay is determined to get back to normal. If he had a drink for every time Clay has claimed to be “fine,” he’d be about as drunk as he’s ever been. And that’s absolutely saying something.

“Have you seen him lately?” Clay’s voice sounds casual, but Sonny can hear the soft edge of apprehension underneath.

“Thankfully, no,” he answers, leaning against the side of the cage and taking a moment to think it over. “Um, guess the last time was your funeral.”

Clay’s head jerks up and he stares at Sonny with a look of stunned bewilderment, like he’s the one whose best friend just came back from the dead. “There was a funeral?”

Sonny forces a laugh to cover his discomfort, not really wanting to relive the experience. “Yeah, Blondie. That is usually what happens when someone dies.”

Clay just stares at him for an extended stretch of time, pink starting to flush his pale cheeks. He opens his mouth a few times like he wants to ask something, but stops himself before he can get the question out. 

Sonny gets the gist. “It was awful,” he says, shaking his head. He can’t think of what else to say.

Clay nods his head and looks down at the floor.

“Ash got into it with Jason in the parking lot after. Trent put him in his place.”

“Trent?”

“Wasn’t gonna let the asshole claim credit for you. What you’ve achieved has been your accomplishment. Not his. And you weren’t there to defend yourself.” 

Clay frowns and nods. It doesn’t seem like he needs Sonny to elaborate. 

“I’m not expecting anything from him,” he finally says as he turns back to his duffle. “Just want to find out if he has my stuff.”

**********

Turns out, coming back from the dead is a time consuming endeavor. 

Over the next week, Clay spends a lot of time taking care of personal business – new driver’s license and phone, sorting out the mess that his social security number has become, signing up for new credit cards and a bank account – methodically working to piece his life back together. It seems to be good for him though, giving him something productive to focus on, and Clay tackles the task with the same determination Sonny's seen him display with everything else he’s come up against in the past. 

He also has meetings on base with the brass and a few medical appointments over that time – doctor, dentist, respiratory therapist – and Sonny happily plays chauffeur, even donning a suit, tie and hat for the first trip. Clay cackles about it the whole way there, insisting on waiting for Sonny to open the door for him. It’s totally worth it to see the glee shine out from his too-thin face. 

They swing by Trent’s for a casual team barbecue one evening, lounging around the fire pit late into the night, reminiscing and talking about everything and nothing. What happened to Clay doesn’t come up much, and when it does, he continues to brush it off, saying everything is fine. Sonny knows that can’t really be true and there’s a lot Clay is going to need to work through in the coming months – maybe years – but the team has agreed to follow his lead for now. Let him set the pace.

Brock brings Cerberus by the apartment a few times, and that seems to do Clay the most good. There’s a calm that visibly comes over him when the dog is nestled on the couch with his snout nuzzled against the younger man’s neck that Sonny hasn’t seen since they got him back – maybe even since before they lost him. 

Most of the rest of his time is spent sleeping or lazing around the apartment. Sonny figures that’s to be expected, as he still has a lot of healing to do. But he’s used to the Clay who’s indefatigable, always looking for the next adventure or a new way he can push himself to be better or stronger. That limitless drive and energy used to annoy Sonny sometimes, but now he finds himself floundering, not knowing how to occupy his time while Clay sleeps in the bedroom. 

Clay doesn’t venture out on his own and keeps his circle of friends tight, mostly sticking with the team. Sonny’s just happy they have him back and that they’re able to offer the support and comfort he needs.

It isn’t until the following week, when Clay really starts to venture out of his bubble and back into the outside world again that Sonny starts to see the cracks begin to show. It’s little things really – a barely detected startle when someone walking past on the sidewalk gets a little too close or wanting to sit with his back to the wall so he’s facing the door while they wait for take-out at a restaurant. 

And when they sit around watching movies at night, he sometimes notices that Clay isn’t really watching. His eyes will be on the screen, but he doesn’t look like he’s actually there, lost instead in a world Sonny can’t follow him into. 

A world he suspects he doesn’t _want_ to follow him into. 

**********

Clay’s been fidgety and on edge all morning. 

Sonny’s trying to give him his space, but it’s hard. The unsettled energy in the small apartment is making his teeth itch. 

“What the hell is the problem?” he finally barks, frustrated with the unease. “It’s just Naima and Jameelah.” 

Clay looks at him with wide, anxious eyes. 

“Do you think it’s too soon?” Sonny asks more gently, trying to suss out what’s bothering his friend.

“No,” Clay rushes out, and a smile finally lands on his face – a genuine one. “I’m excited to see them.” 

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he says with an air of frustration, and Sonny believes him. He seems to be confused by his own hesitance.

Sonny is about to ask if going to the movies is really a good idea when there’s a knock at the door. 

When Naima and Jameelah enter the room, all of the disquiet is sucked away, replaced with vibrant joy. 

“Uncle Clay!” Jameelah yells excitedly, not an ounce of hesitation as she launches herself across the room to Spenser the moment she lays eyes on him.

Sonny sees his friend’s eyes twinkle and his smile grow as he crouches down to catch Jameelah in his arms, returning her tight embrace with only a small pained grimace. 

Jameelah suddenly lets out a choked sob from where her face is buried in Clay’s shoulder, and his face falls as he gently pulls her back to arm’s length so he can look at her. 

“Hey, don’t cry,” Clay says soothingly, running his hands up her arms and using his thumb to wipe away her tears. “I don’t want to see you upset.”

“You…” she sniffles as she continues to cry. “I thought you were dead and I missed you and I don’t ever want you to do that again.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says through what sounds like a tight throat. “I missed you too. So much.”

He hugs her again before pulling back. “How did you get so tall?” he asks, pulling teasingly at her braid. “Pretty sure you’re almost as tall as your dad, but don’t tell him I said that.”

She laughs a big, watery laugh, and Clay’s smile in return is just as big, making him look like a child himself. 

Clay returns to his feet as Naima approaches with a small, delicate smile that Sonny can’t clearly identify. It’s joyful but sad at the same time. She doesn’t go for a hug right away. Instead, she raises her hand to the side of Clay’s face, fingers resting gently across his cheek and into his hair, and just looks at him like she doesn’t quite believe he’s real. Clay’s brow collapses as his eyes fall closed, and he leans into the touch like it’s something he’s been starved for. The tension he’s held all morning visibly leaves his frame all at once. 

Only then does Naima pull him in for a hug and he falls eagerly into it, like he’s one of her kids seeking the warmth and comfort only the best mothers can provide. He clutches at her back with his good arm and rests his face in the crook of her neck. Sonny can hear the whispered murmur of Naima speaking to him, but he can’t make out what she’s saying. She runs her hand through his hair gently as she continues to talk quietly into his ear. 

Sonny suddenly feels like he’s intruding, so he turns his attention to Jameelah.

“Don’t I get a hello, little Ms. Perry? Where’s my big hug?”

“I see you all the time,” she laughs, still sniffling slightly. But she comes over to give him a hug anyway. “I’m so happy Uncle Clay is back.”

“Me too, kiddo.”

Sonny eventually shuffles them out the door and waves goodbye with plenty of teasing about the talking dolphins and koala bears or whatever the fuck it is Clay’s going to be forced to endure for the next few hours.

**********

Sonny’s in the kitchen cleaning up from lunch when he hears the door open. 

“Hey, how’d it go?” he calls, but Clay is already moving into the bathroom, door closing tightly behind him. A feeling of unease creeps up Sonny’s neck, and he moves to the living room to wait for Clay to emerge. When he does, he doesn’t spare much of a glance for Sonny before heading toward the bedroom, but it’s enough for Sonny to see that he looks awful – face more pale than usual, eyes squinted nearly shut and lips chattering faintly. He looks nothing like he did when he left for the movies only a few hours earlier. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, when he reaches the open door to the bedroom. Clay didn’t bother to turn the light on and in the dimness, Sonny can see he’s already crawling into bed. 

“Migraine,” is the quiet, pained reply. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asks softly, moving toward the bed and suddenly feeling completely out of his depth. “Don’t you have something to take for that?” 

“Did,” is the simple, strained reply. “Sleep.” 

“Okay,” Sonny says reluctantly, feeling like there should be something he can do. 

He backs out of the room, closing the door gently behind him, and exits the apartment to call Naima. 

“What the hell happened?” he asks when she answers on the second ring, cringing when he realizes how accusatory his voice sounds.

“It’s a migraine, Sonny. He just needs to rest.”

“But he was fine a few hours ago.” 

“That happens sometimes. We knew he’d be getting them.”

It’s true. The migraine isn’t surprising. Frankly, Clay’s lucky to even be alive considering the head trauma that went completely untreated during his captivity. Dr. Bergose made it clear that the migraines could continue for a while, though he is optimistic that they’ll improve over time. 

“But he looks awful.”

“I know,” she says with a gentle calm that relaxes Sonny a bit.

“Jameelah alright?” he asks, scrubbing a hand over his face, picturing the exuberant little girl who stood in his living room that morning.

“Yeah, she’s okay,” Naima says, voice pitched low. “Concerned for him, but he hid it pretty well.”

They say their goodbyes and Sonny returns to the apartment. Cautious of making any sounds that might disturb Clay, he finds himself sitting on the couch in the silence of the living room.

He thinks about the times he’s seen Clay hurt or sick since he joined Bravo. The younger man is adept at minimizing, overcoming and pushing through pain and discomfort. They all are really, but Clay tends to do so even to his own detriment. It’s something Trent has reamed him out for multiple times. So to see him so undone by something as basic as a migraine – unable to even form complete sentences – is pretty unsettling. 

Knowing he’s likely to get them now is one thing, but seeing the way it ravages him is something else entirely. And it’s hard to imagine what it must have been like for him before, when he was in captivity. If this is an improvement, how much worse could they have been then, when he had no control over his situation and little comfort? 

And how will the migraines ever improve enough for Clay to be cleared to operate again?

**********

Clay emerges from the bedroom several hours later looking tired and bleary-eyed, but without the sheen of pain his eyes held before. He declares that he’s feeling better and manages a full plate of leftover pasta for dinner. They settle in for a movie, but Clay only makes it about halfway through before he starts dozing on the couch and ultimately decides to go to bed. 

Sonny is in the bathroom brushing his teeth a couple hours later when he hears Clay’s voice. At first, he thinks his friend is awake and calling for him. But when he cautiously opens the door to the bedroom, he realizes that isn’t the case at all. Spenser is still asleep, but tossing and turning enough in the bed that Sonny’s afraid he’s going to roll right out of it. 

He approaches slowly, not wanting to intrude, but concerned for his friend. Clay is talking, though Sonny can’t discern anything he’s saying. What he can make out though, crystal clear, is that Clay is in distress. His voice sounds frantic and desperate. And he sounds scared. It’s clearly a nightmare he’s having, and Sonny needs it to stop. He reaches out and shakes his shoulder gently, calling his name. 

Sonny realizes too late that it’s a mistake. 

Clay comes awake instantly and violently, swinging fist connecting with Sonny’s face in a shocking burst of pain and a flash of light. Sonny stumbles back into the doorjamb painfully, struggling to stay on his feet as he processes what just happened. 

He can’t help but let out a groan, and that seems to bring Clay back to full awareness. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he chokes out, scrambling out of the bed to cross the room. 

Sonny immediately regrets the involuntary flinch he makes when Clay reaches for him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Clay repeats miserably, taking a step back. 

“No, it’s my fault,” Sonny gingerly works his jaw. He’s sure to have a hell of a bruise, but he doesn’t think anything is broken. “I’m okay.” 

He heads to the kitchen to grab some ice, and Clay follows him like a chastised puppy. Sonny hates the look on his face.

“For someone who hasn’t been to the gym in ages, you sure still pack a good punch,” he says, gesturing to Clay’s good arm. “Hand okay?”

“Yeah.”

Sonny tosses a bag of peas his way anyway. 

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, but Clay stares at him blankly. 

“The nightmare. Want to talk about it?”

Clay looks back toward the bedroom and shakes his head. “Don’t remember.” 

Sonny doesn’t believe that for a second. He wants to call bullshit, but ultimately decides to let it go. Clay’s had a tough enough day already as it is. “K. Well, I’m wiped. Let’s get some sleep.”

Clay looks reluctant, like he wants to apologize again. 

“It’s okay, Spenser,” Sonny says preemptively. “Really. Happens to all of us.” 

And it’s true. There isn’t a single one of them who hasn’t experienced nightmares. It comes with the job. Hell, he’d be concerned about anyone who did what they do for a living without having the occasional bad dream. He’s even seen Clay have them before. But something about this just felt different. Clay seemed so vulnerable, and Sonny reacted without thinking.

When they finally head to bed, Sonny stays awake to listen, just in case it happens again. But Clay is quiet, and they don’t talk about it in the morning.

**********

Sonny doesn’t touch him again after that.

The nightmares don’t happen every night, but they seem to come at least every few. Sonny wonders if he was too unobservant to notice them before or if they’ve just started. He’s pretty sure they’re new, and he wonders what that means. He tries to talk him awake, but most of the time he’s left to watch helplessly as Clay relives whatever trauma his brain is forcing on him. 

It’s just one more thing he’s discovering that has changed about Clay. He used to be able to fall asleep easily and at will, as they all do, and he’d come awake just as easily. It’s a necessity of being an operator. You grab sleep when you can and you’re always on alert, ready to spring into action.

But Clay starts going to bed late and waking up early. He’ll head to the bedroom for a nap midday only to emerge 20 minutes later saying he can’t sleep. And Sonny will sometimes hear him up and moving around in the middle of the night, or see a crack of light shining from under the door.

Sonny tries to get him to talk about it a few times, but even simply asking how he slept results in the usual “fine,” so he stops asking. As badly as Sonny wants to know what’s going on in Clay’s head, he doesn’t want to push him. 

Hell, he isn’t sure Clay even knows what’s going on. 

**********

Sonny wakes with a start, and he isn’t able to immediately identify what woke him. The glowing clock by the TV tells him it’s just after 3 a.m. He drags himself to a seated position on the couch that has become his bed and nearly comes out of his skin when he sees Clay sitting in the recliner to his right. 

“Fuck!” he gasps out, trying to catch his breath from the startle. “You scared the shit out of me, man.”

Clay doesn’t react and Sonny assumes he’s asleep. But as his eyes begin to adjust to the dimness of the room, he can see that his friend’s eyes are open, and his fists are so tightly clenched in his lap that they’re knuckle-white where they rest on his thighs. 

“Clay?” He asks cautiously, alarm bells starting to ring out in his head.

When there’s no response Sonny shifts down the couch, moving closer. He reaches over to turn on the lamp that’s sitting on the end table. A soft, warm glow fills the room, and Sonny’s eyes immediately land back on Clay. He’s definitely awake, but his blue eyes are vacant – flat and expressionless.

_What the hell?_ Staring into space caught up in your own thoughts is one thing, but seeming near catatonic is frighteningly different.

“Clay?” He tries again, and he can hear the panicked shake starting to climb into his own voice.

When there’s still no response, he uses more force. “Hey, Spenser!”

With a small jerk and a double blink, Clay comes back to himself, hands relaxing and head turning to fully face Sonny. His brow scrunches momentarily like he might be confused, but as quickly as they make contact, his eyes flit away again, back to the blank TV screen.

“You good?” Sonny asks as calmly as he can manage.

“Yeah,” he sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He doesn’t even try to make it sound convincing.

“Want to try that again?” 

Clay simply looks down at his hands in his lap. 

Sonny doesn’t know what to say. Or if he should say anything at all. This muted, subdued demeanor isn’t something he’s used to seeing from Clay and he’s not sure what should come next. 

He finally settles on “What are you doing out here?”

Clay’s eyes move back to his sluggishly before shifting away again, but it’s enough time for him to see that they’re bloodshot. And the exhaustion in them is evident, even in the dim light cast from the lamp. 

“Can’t sleep?” Sonny prompts.

Clay let’s his head fall back on the headrest of the chair with a sigh, eyes closing this time.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Sonny tries again, “I’m sure your doctors can-”

“Don’t want to.”

The words are spoken so quietly Sonny barely makes them out. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but that wasn’t it.

“The nightmares?” 

Clay nods his head slightly and Sonny’s heart rate suddenly picks up. He’s been waiting for Clay to open up and now that it seems he might, Sonny isn’t sure he wants to know anymore. His own imagination has supplied such horrible suggestions of the details of what Clay may have gone through, and he doesn’t want any of them to be confirmed as reality.

But he promised he’d be here for Clay. Help him in any way he can, whatever it takes. And he’s determined to see that through.

“Want to tell me about them?” 

Clay doesn’t give it a moment of thought before he shakes his head.

“Okay.” Sonny says, careful to keep his voice neutral. He’s ashamed of the surge of relief that crashes over him. “Want to watch a movie or something?”

Clay doesn’t answer for at least a full minute, and Sonny thinks he may have actually fallen asleep this time. He starts reaching to turn off the lamp when Clay clears his throat.

“The dreams were what kept me going.” 

Sonny doesn’t say anything, and it doesn’t take long for Clay to continue.

“When they’d drug me, it made me dream. Really vivid. Like it was real. I looked forward to being asleep.” 

His voice is pitched low and the pace of his speech is slow, like he’s barely awake. Sonny swallows thickly, and it sounds as loud as thunder in the quiet of the night. “What did you dream about?” 

“Everything,” Clay finally turns to make eye contact and gestures to Sonny. “You. The guys. Missions. Mostly normal life.”

Sonny nods. He can understand why that would have been a welcome escape.

“Now my dreams take me back there instead,” Clay says with a hint of an exhausted slur. “And I don’t want to go.” 

Those tired eyes are still on him, and Sonny has to work to control his breathing, to fight the panicky clutch developing in his stomach. 

“Yeah, I can understand that,” he says quietly as Clay’s eyes start to droop. But he knows he _doesn’t_ understand. And that’s the problem.

The kid is clearly exhausted, barely lucid. Sonny knows if he doesn’t walk through the door that’s been cracked open right now and continue the conversation himself, Clay’s going to fall asleep and he’ll lose the opportunity. But he also knows the younger man’s guard is down. There’s no way he’d be speaking so openly if he was well rested and fully in charge of his faculties. And Sonny feels like pushing him right now would be a betrayal of his trust. That he’d be taking advantage. 

So he lets him fall asleep right there in the chair, watching intently as his eyes slide firmly closed and his breathing evens out. And he says a quick prayer that the nightmares stay away, at least for tonight.

Sonny’s the one who doesn’t get much sleep that night. His brain won’t shut off, and he spends hours sitting in the dark watching his friend and thinking. About what they’ve all been through. How fortunate they are to have Clay back and how things could have turned out so differently. 

About what the future might hold.

Bravo team is set to go back to work in less than one week – without Clay, of course. And for the first time, Sonny really starts to wonder what’s going to happen when they get spun up. Whether Clay’s ready to be left on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy in this crazy time we’re living in. I lost my job a couple weeks ago because of the shutdown, and it’s an awful feeling as I find myself unemployed for the first time in my life. Unfortunately, my industry will likely be one of the very last to come back, so I’m left contemplating whether I need to figure out an entirely new career. Maybe one small silver lining of this time can be that I’ll finally finish writing this monster!


	15. Chapter 15

Ray’s harsh groan pulls Brock’s attention from across the belly of the C-17. He winces in sympathy as Trent guides the needle of a syringe into the tender-looking skin just above their 2IC’s eyebrow, where there’s an ugly gash sending blood trickling down his face. 

“You suck,” Ray grits out as Trent leans back to let the local anesthetic kick in. 

“Would prefer that you not bleed out before we get back home,” Trent replies nonchalantly, laying out his supplies to stitch up the wound.

Ray shrugs, but reaches a hand up to prod at his forehead. “Good to go,” he says. “Don’t feel a thing.”

“Hey, Brock,” Trent calls when he sees him staring. “Come grab some ice for that shoulder and then hold Ray’s hand for moral support.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Ray shoots back. “You’re getting far too much pleasure out of this.”

Brock laughs, gratefully picking up an ice pack on his way over to join them at Ray’s side.

“If by ‘pleasure’ you mean relief that we’re not carting your body home in a box, then yeah, I guess I’m getting some pleasure out of this.” Trent chuckles, but his words are undercut with a darker tension. 

It was a crap mission. The HVT wasn’t where they expected him to be, and they ended up in a hornet’s nest of enemy combatants. The team is a bit banged up, but Brock’s just happy they made it out alive, because they came about as close as you get to a _very_ bad day. 

He leans back with his own groan, letting the soothing relief of the cold pack seep into his aching shoulder as the last of his adrenaline surge starts to give way to exhaustion. Cerberus hops up on the bench next to him and settles his head across his thigh. Brock’s hand sinks into the hair on the dog’s back, letting the comfortingly familiar feel and smell of his canine partner wash over him.

“What’s the verdict?” Jason asks as he and Sonny arrive with beers and fall into the seats across from them. Brock accepts a can with a nod of thanks.

“Just a few stitches should do it,” Trent says, already working to close the wound on Ray’s head. “Concussion though.”

“Mmm,” Ray growls faintly in annoyance. 

“He need a hospital when we get back?” Jason's concern for his friend is obvious, and he's not yet able to let go of the team leader mode that's so deeply ingrained.

“No,” Ray grumbles.

“Naima gonna be home?” Trent asks.

Ray raises a thumb before dropping his hand back to his lap. 

“Then I’m okay with you going home. But only because she knows her shit and I trust her, not you. I’ll drive you.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And hospital visits freak out the kids, so I’m happy to avoid it if I can.”

“How are the rug rats?” Sonny asks, reaching to pass Ray a beer, which Trent pushes away with a shake of the head and an aghast look that screams _'Are you kidding me?'_

“RJ’s hit the stage where it’s questions, all the time. Questions about everything,” Ray replies with exasperation. “Why don’t we have tails? Why aren’t cars shaped like boats? It’s exhausting. Don’t remember Jameelah having so many at that age.”

“Means he’s smart, right?” 

“Jam is already too smart for her own good. Don’t need two of them outwitting us.” Ray feigns annoyance, but Brock can hear the pride shining through in this voice.

It’s been a pleasure watching the Perry kids grow over the years. Brock has nieces and nephews of his own, but none of them live nearby and he doesn’t get to see them nearly as often as he’d like. And as much as he loves them, Emma and Mikey were already out of that early childhood stage when Brock joined Bravo. He’s proud to hold the status of honorary uncle to Jameelah and RJ.

“We had an uncomfortable situation the other day,” Ray grimaces as Trent finishes up the stitches and starts cleaning up. “Jameelah told a friend at school that his recently deceased grandmother could come back from the dead.”

“Oh, shit,” Sonny laughs. 

“Not funny, brother,” Ray replies with a sad laugh of his own. “Having the death conversation is tough enough as it is. We were so caught up in the relief of Spenser’s return, I don’t think we realized how much it confused her.” He reaches to scrub a hand over his face before thinking better of it and letting his head fall back instead. “Clay was the first death she experienced. At least of someone she knew well. Guess when he came back it kind of muddled the concept for her.”

“Ouch, that’s a tough one,” Jason sighs.

Brock understands how the whole experience could be confusing for someone Jameelah’s age. There are some days he has trouble wrapping his own head around the fact that Spenser is back with them. That the brother he thought he’d never see again somehow, remarkably returned. But not having him with them in moments like this still feels like they’re a body that’s missing a limb, a vital piece to the puzzle that’s necessary to make them complete.

Clay being absent for spin ups when they thought he was dead was horribly painful. But losing a teammate is something they’d all experienced before – too many times – so they did what they had to do and pushed on as best they could. But now that Clay is back, there’s a new, overwhelming yearning to have him rejoin the team. Brock feels it like an unrelenting itch deep inside, the same as he felt after the bombing in Manila. 

They don’t have any kind of timeline for when Clay might be able to return to Bravo, if he’s ever able to at all. The road blocks he’s up against sometimes seem insurmountable. There are the physical injuries, of course. His lungs are still recovering, and his wrist is on the mend, though it remains a slight concern for someone whose dexterity and precision is an important part of what he does. But there are also the migraines, which Sonny has expressed concern about over the last few weeks. Brock hasn’t been present for one yet, but they apparently completely knock the young man on his ass. And of course, regaining his general physical strength is going to take time. It’s amazing how quickly Clay lost all of the hard-earned muscle that used to envelop his frame. Years of work nearly completely wiped out in a matter of months.

Then there’s his emotional recovery. Brock can’t even imagine what he went through in his time in captivity, and he knows Clay is going to have to face it head on sooner or later. It’s something he doesn’t seem interested in doing yet, or maybe he’s in denial that it’s something he even needs to do. But Brock knows time with a therapist and a mental health evaluation will be required before Clay is ever cleared to come back to work, just like the physical milestones he’ll need to hit. 

No one has said it aloud recently, but Brock knows they’re all afraid Clay won’t ever get to a point where operating again is a realistic goal. Since he’s been back, Brock has seen him flinch at loud noises, avoid dark spaces and zone out in the middle of a conversation. How does he go from that to once again serving on an elite tier one team? Will he be able to focus adequately in the midst of a firefight? Or spend hours concentrating on a target while waiting for the go ahead to take a shot?

Will he be able to go into a hostage rescue situation again without reliving his own trauma?

Brock’s seen PTSD prematurely retire more friends than he ever wants to count, and he desperately doesn’t want that to happen to Clay. 

But mostly, above all else, he just wants him to be okay. That’s the most important thing, regardless of whether Clay operates again or not. He’s been through enough. Sometimes when Brock watches Clay play with Cerberus, carefree and bright, he gets swept away with the idea of his friend never needing to walk into danger ever again. Being able to let his guard down and just enjoy a life free from pain and responsibility and the immense pressure he puts on himself – in a way he’s never really been able to before. It’s an enticing image, and while Brock knows it’s not what Clay would want, there’s a small part of him that wishes he did.

“You text him?” Jason directs at Sonny, pulling Brock from his thoughts. 

“Nah, I’ll do it when we get closer. Don’t want him to think I’m checking up on him.”

Brock can’t really argue with that. This is their first spin up since Clay came home, and he knows Sonny was hesitant about leaving him. They all were. But it was a short op, and they’ve been gone for less than 48 hours. He can clearly picture the intensity with which Clay’s eyes would roll if they were to check in so quickly.

“Said he was gonna look at apartments,” Sonny says. 

“Think he’s ready for that?” Jason asks, setting his empty beer can down. 

“Don’t see why not. He’s an adult. Doesn’t need a babysitter.” 

Sonny leans back in his seat and continues after a heavy sigh. “Who knows, might be good for him.”

Brock has spent a good amount of time with Clay since he’s been back, one on one and with the team. He can’t disagree with Sonny. There’s no reason Clay isn’t capable of living on his own. But something about it bothers him anyway. Even though they've been working together for a few years and Clay has more than proved himself capable in everything he does, he's still their _kid_, and Brock feels a powerful responsibility to protect him.

They settle into silence for several minutes, the rumble of the plane and the hum of distant voices lulling them into a peaceful rest. Brock tries to muster the energy to drag himself up, knowing falling asleep while seated would be a bad idea for his strained shoulder when there’s a perfectly good hammock hanging just feet away. But the energy required to do so feels too great, and the post-mission comedown is soothing him into a doze.

“I don’t know how to help him.”

Sonny’s voice is so quiet Brock isn’t immediately sure if he really spoke or if it was the beginning of a dream. But the despair in the man’s broken tone makes Brock’s throat feel tight, and one glance at him tells Brock it was absolutely real. Sonny’s head is bowed, and under the rim of his cap Brock can see him gripping the toothpick that’s sticking out of his mouth. There’s defeat radiating from his body where he’s slumped in the seat.

No one says anything for a moment before Jason moves his hand over to the Texan’s knee and squeezes. “You’re doing a lot to help him, Sonny.”

The lump in Brock’s throat only grows as Sonny scoffs and shakes his head. 

“What do you need?” Rays asks. “What can we do for him? For you?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know that there’s anything we can do,” Sonny sighs in frustration, lifting his head to look at them. “Some days he seems perfectly fine, like the old Clay, you know? And other days,” he exhales deeply, “he really doesn’t.”

Brock sees Blackburn lean forward with interest from where he’s sitting a bit farther down the row. His open expression is curious and concerned, but not judging.

“He won’t talk about any of it,” Sonny continues. “Usually denies the nightmares even happen. If I hear him say he’s fine one more time, I’m afraid I’m gonna lash out.” 

“There’s gotta be so much shit bottled up in there that he needs to get out,” Trent says.

“Maybe we need to start pushing him harder?” Brock asks. It’s a scary thought, but he knows Clay needs to face what happened to him.

“Maybe,” Ray chimes in. “Don’t want to screw it up, though. Make a wrong move.” 

“I’m struggling to understand what he’s going through,” Sonny says, frustration ratcheting up in his voice. “He won’t tell me.” 

“I’m not sure we can understand,” Trent sighs heavily. “Or that we need to. I think we just need to be there for him.” 

“And if he doesn’t give us the chance?” Sonny asks, a desperate edge coloring his tone now. “What if he moves out and closes himself off from all of us?”

“We just keep letting him know we aren’t going anywhere and that we’re ready when he is,” Jason says, and Brock knows how significant the statement is. Their team leader cares about them deeply – maybe too deeply – but he isn’t exactly touchy-feely when it comes to opening up about emotions. 

“Eric, can’t you make him see someone?" Ray asks, leaning forward so he can clearly see Blackburn. “Start working through things?”

"Clay is very well aware of what’s expected of him regarding a return to DEVGRU. As well as the resources that are available to him regardless of what he chooses to do,” he replies firmly, in the no nonsense manner Brock is accustomed to. “But the timing is up to him to an extent. We've given him that freedom and he needs to make those decisions for himself.” 

Their commander continues with a softer tone a moment later, looking at them all in turn. “Just stick with him. He needs support from all of you now more than ever, even if it seems like he doesn’t want it. And when he’s ready to talk, be ready to listen.”

They all nod their agreement, and Brock suddenly feels like they’re gossiping behind Clay’s back. His young friend would be terribly embarrassed if he knew they were discussing him like this. 

“Maybe I should bring Cerberus by when we get home?” he asks to redirect the conversation. “Always seems to make him happy.”

The dog lifts his head at the mention of his name and Ray laughs. "Make Clay happy or Cerb happy?" 

"Both?" Brock asks. It's a long-running gag that Clay is the dog's favorite among the team, excepting Brock of course. They've always had a strong bond, but Brock figures that's because Clay showers their canine friend with affection more than the others do. He's very hands on with him when they aren't working. Sometimes Brock thinks Cerberus might be Clay's favorite team member too.

“Yeah, that would be good,” Sonny agrees, then laughs. “Though I’m not sure how I feel about a dog outranking me in the ‘excited to see you' department.”

“Story of my life, man,” Brock throws back with a smile, and Cerberus snuffles, resting his head back down again.

The conversation peters out after that, and Brock eventually makes it to his hammock for the rest of the flight. 

**********

It’s late evening by the time they touch down in Virginia. Brock managed a few good hours of sleep on the plane, but his shoulder aches badly and it takes some nudging to get a snoring Cerberus to wake up enough to move so he can restore proper circulation in the limb. He feels groggy. Sometimes these short trips somehow seem to be more draining than the long ones. 

Sorting out Cerberus’s equipment takes longer than he’d like, but once he’s finished Brock heads straight to Sonny’s place to see Clay. The dog gets amped up as they approach the door, pulling at his lead and yipping excitedly, like he knows he’s about to be smothered in love and attention. 

The door flies open as soon as Brock knocks, and Sonny appears in the doorway looking pale and worried.

“He’s not here,” he says anxiously.

“Okay,” Brock replies with a question in his voice. He’s bummed that Clay is out, but Sonny’s reaction seems a bit extreme.

But Brock barely has time to get the word out before Sonny moves out of the way to let him and Cerberus into the apartment.

“He’s not answering his phone. I don’t…” Sonny trails off, gesturing to the kitchen and living room, and Brock suddenly understands his concern. 

The apartment is a mess. There are takeout containers, books, DVDs and clothes lying around, but what draws Brock’s attention are the bottles – liquor, beer, wine – in varying states of empty. There’s broken glass shattered on the kitchen floor and spread out at the base of the wall by the TV, and the furniture seems out of place, like someone took the room and shook it.

Brock's heart sinks to his stomach. 

“Fuck,” is all he can manage. 

Sonny’s immediately on the phone with Jason, sounding more and more agitated as he explains what’s going on. Brock pushes himself into action and calls Trent, detailing what they found. Trent’s alarm comes through over the line and he promises to be over as soon as he gets Ray settled. 

“Jay’s gonna put some feelers out and start looking,” Sonny says once Brock hangs up. “Where would he go? The door was unlocked. My truck is in the parking lot.” 

“He wouldn’t do something stupid, would he?” Brock asks, not entirely sure what nightmare possibility he’s actually asking about. He doesn’t want to think about worst case scenarios. But this is so out of character for Clay. 

“I don’t think so,” Sonny replies, but it’s shaky at best.

Cerberus has already sniffed out the entire apartment and he seems disappointed that his friend isn’t present, like he was promised a toy that was ripped away from him. Brock has to pull him roughly away from the broken glass by the wall before he hurts himself. He’s just starting to think he should grab some clothes so Cerberus can track the younger man when he and Sonny both get a text at the same time. It’s from Jason. 

_FM called. Kid’s drunk at Bulkhead. Going to get him, will take to Sonny’s._

It comes as an immense relief. Brock stays to help clean up the glass, and he figures Clay may still like to see Cerberus.

That relief lasts right up to the moment Jason and Metal drag an unconscious Clay through the door, Trent hurrying in just behind them. Clay isn’t helping to carry his own weight in any way, completely out cold. 

“He was passed out in the fucking parking lot,” Jason says. It sounds angry, and Brock’s suddenly angry too. But underneath the anger, he’s mostly concerned. When they were talking about Clay just hours ago, none of them expected to come home to this.

“Get him on the couch,” Trent says, already moving over to clear the way. “But sit him up.”

Cerberus is radiating an anxious energy at the heightened tension in the room and the sight of Clay, and Brock has to hold him back.

Trent takes a quick scan of the living room. “What’s that?” he asks, gesturing to an amber prescription bottle toppled over on the side table that Brock hadn't noticed before. 

“Must be his,” Sonny shrugs, and Jason moves over to grab it. 

“What is it?” Trent asks more urgently, and Brock is alarmed by the rising level of agitation from their normally unflappable medic. 

“Percocet,” Jason says, tipping some of the round blue pills into his hand. 

“Damn it,” Trent growls before turning to Sonny. “Has he been taking it?” 

“I don’t know.” Sonny looks confused. “Not that I’ve seen.”

“He shouldn’t have that shit,” Trent says, turning back to Clay and checking his pulse. “Count it, Jace. See what’s missing.”

“He’s been through a lot,” Brock says, instinctively feeling the need to defend his young brother. 

“Yeah, well, he can manage the pain with Tylenol just fine. Why the hell would they prescribe that for him?” 

“He had surgery,” Sonny says. “He was pretty banged up, Trent.” 

“He’s a recovering addict.” 

There’s a sudden, deafening silence. Brock's heart thuds in his chest. 

“That’s not fair,” Sonny says. “He didn’t…it wasn’t his fault.” 

“No, but his body doesn’t know the difference.”

Trent checks Spenser’s pupils and then rests his hand against his chest for a minute. 

“Hey, Clay,” he tries, with a pat to the younger man’s cheek that increases in intensity. 

There’s no response. 

“Most seem to be here,” Jason says, setting the pill bottle back down.

“Most?” 

“A few missing, but hard to tell,” Jason replies, gesturing to the room and leaning to pick a pill up off the floor. He stays down to look for others.

“Spenser, you hear me?” Trent asks more firmly, squeezing his arm. But there’s still no reaction.

“Do we need to take him to the hospital?” Brock asks, swallowing hard. “Get his stomach pumped or something?” 

“I don’t like how depressed his breathing is,” Trent says, biting his bottom lip as he studies his patient. “But I just want to watch him for now.”

Cerberus whines and struggles in Brock’s grasp, and he has to crouch down next to Spenser to keep the dog at bay. 

Clay suddenly heaves in his direction, and Brock doesn’t have time to move out of the way. The vomit splatters across his t-shirt as the younger man falls forward against his chest with a ragged moan. 

“Shit,” Brock lets out, automatically reaching up to support his friend’s weight and trying to ignore the jolt of pain that travels through his arm. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, but Clay is already out again as Trent helps push him fully back onto the couch. Brock carefully pulls the soiled shirt up and over his head and uses it to gently wipe down Clay’s mouth and chin as Jason and Sonny work to remove Clay's own shirt as well.

Full Metal appears from the kitchen with a large empty pot and a wet hand towel, which he deposits on the couch. “I’m gonna get out of your way, unless I can help with something.” 

“We’re good,” Jason says, wiping Clay’s face down with the towel. “Thanks, man. For everything.” 

“Of course,” the Alpha leader replies on his way to the door. “You take care of him.” 

They work quietly for a few minutes to make Clay comfortable on the couch, propped in his seated position with the pot right next to him. He remains unconscious through it all, and Brock finds it hard to look at him directly. He’s not sure what his current state says about where his mindset is. But it doesn’t look good. Maybe that push they were debating is going to need to happen after all, whether they want it to or not. Whether Clay wants it to or not.

Brock reaches to pull Clay’s wallet and phone from his pocket, where they look like they’re digging painfully into his thigh, and dumps them on the coffee table. In the small amount of time it takes him to do that, Cerberus wiggles between the younger man’s feet, settling in on the floor with his snout resting on Clay’s knee and looking at him with sad, imploring eyes. Brock lets him stay. 

He watches helplessly as Trent continues to check Clay over, trying to rouse him. Jason is back on his feet now, pacing the room and running his hands through his hair in a way that's all too familiar to the team when their leader is stressed.

“He didn’t read the text,” Sonny says, and fear shades his voice. 

“What?” 

He holds up Clay’s phone. “He never read my text saying we were on the way home.”

_'And he did this anyway'_ is left unsaid, but the implication of it thunders through Brock’s head.

Clay has always been a responsible drinker. Sure, he’s had his moments like they all do, but never alone. Nothing like this. Getting completely wasted with no one around to look out for him is unsafe and Clay knows that. It’s dangerous not only for his own health and well-being, but also for his status in the Navy.

"Fuck!" Jason growls, punching the back of the recliner.

It makes Brock jump, and he swings his gaze back around to land on Clay. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asks, his concern building.

“I’ll stay,” Trent says, suddenly sounding exhausted. It doesn’t escape Brock’s notice that he doesn’t actually answer the question. “You guys can head home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jason shoots back indignantly, and Brock feels the same. He wants – _needs_ – to make sure Clay’s okay. 

Trent sighs and rises to his feet. “He shouldn’t feel like he’s being ganged up on, and he will if we’re all here when he comes around.” 

Jason looks like he’s about to argue, but Trent cuts in before he can. “Jace, we just got back from a bad one. There’s no reason for all of us to be here. Mikey’s home, right? Go spend some time with your kid. Check on Ray for me in the morning.”

Jason stares at him hard for a moment before his gaze shifts to Clay and he nods tightly. “You call me if anything changes.”

“Of course,” Trent says before turning to Brock. “Go home and ice that shoulder again. Get some rest.”

Brock sighs, wanting to argue, but knowing Trent has a point and he should follow Jason’s lead. 

“We’ll keep an eye on him. Right?” Trent directs to Sonny, but the Texan is staring blank-eyed at Clay, not paying any attention.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Trent repeats with more volume. “Right, Sonny?”

A beat goes by before the words seem to penetrate and Sonny turns to look at them. “Yeah. Always.”

Brock has to drag Cerberus away from Clay and to the door. He leaves the apartment knowing he won’t be getting any of that rest tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh, somehow this unexpectedly became the longest chapter yet.

Trent feels old. 

It’s just after 4 a.m. and he’s sitting, bleary-eyed, on the couch in Sonny’s living room, and he just feels so _old_. Early in his career, he could stay up for days at a time, ready to face every challenge that came his way. He took pride in it. Bragged about it even. He’s still ready for the challenge, but the awake-for-days-at-a-time part is getting harder as the years go by.

Sonny’s slumped in the recliner next to him, cheek resting on his hand and legs stretched out across the leather foot rest. The Texan is awake too, his eyes fixed but vacant on the TV, where they have some old fishing program playing quietly in the dimly lit room. It’s the kind of show that’s meant to put insomniacs to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, but unfortunately that’s not their objective.

Trent’s not sure how much of his exhaustion is pure physical fatigue and how much is emotional weariness. His brain feels too tired to give it much thought. Their op was nearly two days of hell that came too close to a really horrible ending – the kind of ending he has nightmares about and that occasionally makes him question all that he believes about the Navy and his job. While they were able to snatch some brief and uneasy moments of shut eye, those chances were few and far between.

Then on the flight back he mostly stayed awake to keep an eye on Ray, sending an occasional longing look to the unused hammock Jason strung up for him. He knew their 2IC would be okay. There wasn’t really a need to sit vigil over him. But the echoes of the mission were cycling too freshly through his memory, and keeping his eyes on the man gave him the comforting reminder of knowing they’d gotten out okay.

He had just delivered Ray home to Naima and was helping to get him settled in – much to Ray’s displeasure – when he got the call from Brock that Clay was missing. 

And now, several long hours later, he’s in Sonny’s living room watching over Clay instead. And definitely _not_ sleeping in his warm, soft, comfortable bed at home. It’s all just a lot. And it makes Trent question how much longer he can keep up the pace of the job. How much longer the rest of the team can.

Sometimes it feels like Bravo can’t catch a break.

But then he looks at Clay, who’s passed out on the couch next to him, and he realizes getting him back was the absolute biggest break of his life. Having him here with them is the most important thing, so Trent can suck it up and deal with some exhaustion.

He’s pretty much come to the conclusion that Clay’s just hammered. That he drank too much and will no doubt feel it pretty spectacularly when he wakes up. But in those minutes when he first arrived at Sonny’s place, Clay unconscious in front of him and that pill bottle lying knocked over on the table, Trent’s own heart nearly stopped. For a few horrifying moments he really thought Clay had OD’d. That after everything they’d gone through to get him back, and after everything Clay had managed to survive in the field over the years, the end had come in the form of a solitary pill bottle filled with small round narcotics he never should have even had to begin with.

And because his brothers weren’t there to make sure he was okay.

It induced a level of pure terror that Trent doesn’t feel much nowadays. At the very beginning of his career he used to feel it when he was being shot at, but at this point that barely raises his heart rate. Now the feeling is mostly reserved for times when shit truly hits the fan.

The last time he felt it so intensely was on the front lawn of an estate in Thailand when he watched a house go up in flames. When he thought it had taken his friend with it.

Most of his concern for Clay’s physical well-being has melted away as the night has worn on. He’s roused enough to vomit a few more times, and his pulse and respiration are holding steady. But Trent still isn’t ready to let his guard down enough to sleep.

Clay starts to shift again, and Trent barely spares a glance before nudging the pot closer to him in anticipation of what’s to come. But Clay wakes more thoroughly this time, and before Trent’s sleep-deprived mind has a chance to catch up, the younger man launches himself off the couch. He stumbles and lands hard on his bare knees on the floor before pulling himself back up and stagger-running to the bathroom, completely ignoring Sonny’s calls of concern.

By the time Trent makes it to the small room, Clay’s on his ass on the floor, leaning over the toilet. Bare chested and barefoot in his cargo shorts, he looks like some sorry college kid, coming to in the frat house bathroom after a party and regretting everything that happened the night before.

If only that were the case.

“Pretty sure there’s nothing left in you to bring up,” Trent tries to be gentle about it, voice soft. He slides the shower curtain out of the way so he can perch on the edge of the bathtub.

“Mmmm,” is the moaned response, and Clay spits into the bowl before slowly leaning back to rest his head against the cabinet as he works to steady his breathing.

Sonny comes in with a bottle of water, which he holds out for Clay. The younger man eyes it sluggishly but doesn’t take it, so Sonny sets it down next to him before moving back to lean against the door jamb.

“Drink it,” Trent says after a full minute goes by, and if he sounds like the bossy, overbearing team mom, tough shit. He’s so far beyond caring at this point.

Clay does pick the bottle up this time, and the obvious effort it takes for him to simply twist the cap off makes Trent wince in sympathy. But he doesn’t step in to help.

Clay manages to get about a third of the water down, and Sonny moves to the medicine cabinet to grab a bottle of ibuprofen. He shakes out four pills, and Clay accepts them without any argument.

In the quiet that follows, Trent tries to look him over without being too obvious about it. His hair is wild, some matted to his forehead with sweat and the rest sticking out in every direction. His eyes are closed, and his lashes are a combination of wet and crusty. His casted arm is resting across his stomach, fingers playing restlessly with the waistband of his shorts. Aside from his slow, measured breathing, that’s the only movement he’s making.

The black trident tips and ears of his Bravo tattoo are just visible where they creep around his bicep, and seeing the permanent symbol of brotherhood on Clay drives an increased surge of protectiveness through Trent. He can’t hold it in any longer. He needs to know.

“Did you take any of the Percocet?”

Clay shifts his head without opening his eyes, but that’s clearly a bad idea. He turns a little green and heaves toward the toilet bowl again.

Nothing comes up except a little bit of the water he just drank, and Trent lets him take his time.

“No,” he finally gasps out weakly. 

Trent is more relieved than he expected to be. His worry about an overdose had faded, but there was still the addiction concern, and selfishly, that’s not something he thinks he has it in him to deal with right now.

They settle back into the quiet. Clay’s breathing steadies again, his mouth slightly parted, and Trent gets the feeling he’s afraid to even move.

“Drink,” he orders firmly, feeling like a complete asshole. But he knows it will help.

Clay dutifully picks the bottle back up without question and slowly nurses it this time. That’s okay by Trent. Whatever it takes to get the hydration into him.

Sonny shuffles a bit where he’s standing against the door jamb, like he wants to say something, but isn’t sure where to begin. It’s exactly how Trent feels.

Clay beats them both to it. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, gingerly rolling his head in the Texan’s direction. 

Sonny huffs out a disgruntled puff of air before shaking his head and shooting back a little too loudly, “I don’t care about the fucking _mess_.”

Clay winces, and Trent shoots Sonny a warning look. But now that he’s started, apparently he isn’t ready to stop.

“What if we hadn’t come home when we did?” he asks, heat climbing in his voice.

Clay turns away and bites his lip with a sigh.

That’s clearly not an acceptable reaction in Sonny’s book. “What were you thinking?” he barks out harshly.

“I wasn’t!” The outburst from Clay comes as a shock. “I wasn’t thinking, okay? That was the whole point. Just for a little while, I didn’t want to…” he trails off with a hitched breath, thunking his head back against the cabinet with a faint groan.

“What?” Trent encourages softly.

“Think about anything,” he replies, but Trent can tell by the reluctant tone that it’s not what he initially intended to say. He catches Clay’s eyes and stares him down.

“_Feel_ anything,” Clay says quietly, not breaking the eye contact, even though he looks like he wants to. “I missed not feeling.”

Trent nods in acknowledgement, careful to keep his expression accepting and relaxed. He doesn’t say anything, throat tight and not quite sure what to say to that anyway. It’s the most open and vulnerable he’s seen Clay, and he doesn’t want to shut him down or upset the delicate balance. He can feel an unsettled energy radiating off of Sonny, but he doesn’t push either, just continues to stand there quietly.

Clay eventually looks down and plays with the water bottle in his hands, the cracking and popping of the plastic the only sound in the small room.

“Ash got rid of everything.”

Sonny makes a small noise like he’s been punched in the gut, and Trent’s breath catches in his throat. He’s going to murder the man.

“Fuck,” he blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. You saw him?”

Clay nods, his nose and upper lip scrunched in disgust. “He actually kind of seemed to be genuinely happy I’m alive?” It’s stated as a question, and the fact that he seems so unsure speaks volumes about the state of the relationship. An ugly laugh escapes his throat. “Father of the year.”

Sonny crouches down to try to catch Clay’s eye. “You should have let one of us go with you.”

“It was fine,” Clay dismisses with a wave of his hand. “And I really don’t care all that much about the stuff, honestly. It was just…” he trails off, like he needs time to form the words he’s looking for. “It’s _gone_. Everything’s _gone_. There’s nothing left. And you guys were gone too.”

Trent’s own stomach turns, a weight settling like a lead balloon inside of him.

Clay shuffles on the bathroom tile, pulling his bent knees closer to his body. “I thought when I got out that things would go back to normal. The way they were before. That I could put it behind me.” He stares intently at his cast, fingers of his right hand picking at the edge of the rigid fiberglass. “But nothing is the same. And I don’t think it’s ever going to be.”

It sounds hopeless.

And it sparks a fire of worry in Trent’s gut. More worry than when Brock called the night before to tell him Clay was missing. And more worry than when he was dragged unconscious through the door. Maybe even more than when he saw that pill bottle.

Self-destructive isn’t a descriptor he’d ever have thought to apply to their youngest member. At least not outside of displays of reckless heroism or the like. But that’s what this is starting to feel like. And it’s not okay.

“We’re trying to give you your space, Clay,” he tries evenly. “But if that means you’re endangering yourself in any way, then we can’t do that. Do we need to be worried?”

Clay doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at either of them. _Won’t_ look at either of them.

“Were you trying to hurt yourself?”

Each second that goes by feels like an eternity.

“You’re not doing this!” Sonny finally snaps as he starts pacing in the small space, and Trent sees Clay flinch when he moves a touch too close. “We didn’t get you back from all of that -”

“Sonny,” Trent warns, trying to calm him.

“You didn’t _survive_ that to do stupid shit like this,” he growls, a frantic edge rising in his voice. “To drown in your own fucking vomit in the Bulkhead parking lot.”

“_Sonny_,” Trent insists, reaching to grasp his arm and squeezing. “Take a minute.”

He looks like he wants to argue – chest puffed out, nostrils flaring, eyes hard and intense. But his gaze shifts back to Clay and his posture softens slightly. Trent sees him take a deep breath to rein himself in before he offers an aborted nod and quickly walks out of the room.

Clay’s working to steady his breath again, and Trent gives it a minute before summoning the courage to make another attempt. “Were you trying to hurt yourself?”

“No.” Wetness is leaking from the corner of his eye, and Trent wonders if he’s emotional or if it’s simply the effects of the hangover. “I wasn’t thinking like that.”

Clay reaches to brush the tear away. “But I’m not sure I really cared either.”

Trent nods, trying to project calm, while the fire that was burning inside of him has now been doused ice cold. He knows Clay probably isn’t in the right frame of mind for this conversation. That he should let him rest and deal with it later. But he _can’t_.

“Like I said, we’re trying to give you space. Let you deal with things in your own time. Figure out your own way.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “But I think it would help if you talked to someone. A professional.”

Clay lets out a disgusted scoff.

“Why is that so ridiculous?”

“I’m fine.”

It really is an absurd statement considering their present situation.

“You’re not,” Trent counters firmly.

Clay simply stares stubbornly straight ahead.

“Hey,” Trent waits for those blue eyes to turn to him before continuing. “And no one expects you to be.”

Clay doesn’t say anything, but his expression shows the war that’s being waged inside his head. Trent doesn’t want to lose the opportunity, so he doubles down.

“I saw a therapist for a while after this.” He holds his arm out to display the familiar scars. “It fucked me up, man. Thinking I wouldn’t be able to rejoin my team or that I’d never regain the function. That kind of thing screws with your head. It had to have been the same for you. After Manila.”

Clay nods.

“I know this is different, and there’s a lot more to it. But I’m sure there are similarities, like wondering what comes next and how to get there. Sometimes talking about things helps. There’s no shame in that. It helps you sort out your thoughts. Makes it make sense. So you can figure out ways to cope. Have a plan.”

Sonny comes back into the bathroom then, with a fresh bottle of water and a lighter step. Instead of taking up the same imposing stance at the door, this time he hops casually up onto the counter and leans his back against the wall so he can look over at Spenser.

“After we lost you, I didn’t exactly handle it well,” he drawls in a self-deprecating tone. “I guess you could say I spiraled. Drank too much. Ended up right where you are more times than I should have. That first night we got home, after finding out you were dead,” he stops himself with a sad laugh. “I think it’s the closest I’ve ever come to drinking myself to death.”

Clay turns his head up slowly to look at him with wary eyes.

“So it’s probably pretty hypocritical of me to call you out now. But Lisa was here. And then the team after that. To make sure I didn’t do anything stupid and that I woke up the next morning. And the next, and the next.”

Clay stares at him intently.

“I’m gonna do the same for you,” Sonny continues adamantly, with new moisture in his eyes. “You’re not gonna kill yourself, Clay. Not like this.”

It’s said with such conviction and warmth and love that it makes Trent tear up a bit himself. He’s so fiercely proud of Sonny and the way he’s handled everything. The Texan was in a bad way when they came back from Thailand without Clay. They all were, but Sonny particularly so, his grief deep and apparent to everyone around him. But he clawed his way out of it. He let his friends help him and he did the slow, hard work to better himself, maturing along the way.

And he’s done so much for Clay since his return. More than the rest of them, and they’ve had complete trust in him to do it. To look out for their youngest. But now they need to help him. To get Clay where he needs to be.

“You know you can’t do this, right?” Trent directs at the younger man, waving around the room.

He feels guilty for saying it. And for what he’s going to say next. He knows he shouldn’t be putting any responsibility or blame on Clay right now. That it isn’t fair and that he’s using his loyalty to his brothers against him. To guilt and sway him. And that it isn’t ultimately going to fix the problem.

But he also knows it’s probably the most effective tool he has. And in the moment, when he’s afraid for Clay and what he may do, it seems like a worthy trade off.

“You don’t _get_ to do this,” he emphasizes, locking eyes with Clay again. “We can’t go out there and do our jobs safely if we’re worried about you here. It’s already hard enough without you.”

Clay swallows hard and stares at him for a long time. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice hitting the wrong pitch. It hits Trent like a vice wrapped around his throat. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Sonny says gently. “Just don’t do it.”

Clay scrubs his good hand across his face and nods. 

“That’s your contribution to Bravo right now,” Trent urges. “Make sure that when Sonny has to go out there, and Jason, and me. All of us. You make sure we aren’t distracted. So that you still have a team to come back to when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Clay says firmly, like he’s made up his mind. And it sounds completely genuine, carrying a new resolve. “I promise.”

**********

Clay is true to his word.

The team is spun up again less than a week later and this time when they hit the C-17 after they’ve successfully completed the op - hot and dirty and exhausted - they shoot him a message right away instead of waiting. They receive a reply in less than a minute.

When they land in Virginia Beach, Clay’s in the parking lot waiting for them, sitting on the tailgate of Sonny’s truck with his dangling legs casually swinging back and forth. They pick up some barbeque takeout and then spend the afternoon in Trent’s backyard. It’s nice, and it gives Trent hope that this could work. That they don’t have to be worried about Clay every time they’re gone.

That becomes the routine over the next few weeks. Clay is there to meet them when they arrive home from a mission, and instead of hitting the bar like they used to, they always end up in Trent’s backyard. Sometimes it’s just them and sometimes the families join in, depending on the time of day, but it’s always comfortable. _Complete_. Clay might not be back with the team, but it feels pretty close. And that’s good for now.

Most importantly, he seems to be doing well, both physically and in a reclaiming-his-life kind of way. He moves out of Sonny’s place and finds a nicely furnished apartment. It’s near base, which doesn’t go unnoticed by any of them. And he leases a truck that he practically drools over.

The newfound independence does him a lot of good. Instead of pulling away from them, as Sonny feared, the freedom actually seems to draw him closer.

**********

They’re back from a quick trip, and Clay is sitting there waiting for them when they land. It’s becoming routine enough that Trent doesn’t carry much concern about leaving him anymore.

But there’s an extra bit of happiness this time. The cast is gone.

“Hey, look at you!” Jason says as they approach. “When did that happen?”

“About an hour ago,” he says, nuzzling his face into Cerberus’ neck as soon as the dog jumps up to greet him, sniffing at his arm. “Freedom at last.”

Trent is struck by how good he looks. In fact, aside from some faint scars on his arms and legs, the average person passing Clay on the street would never know anything happened to him. He still looks different to the team of course, lacking the bulk his body once held, but Trent knows he’s eager to get back into the gym now that the cast is off. He’s been talking about it incessantly. He knows Clay’s been running and exercising at home, but he’d had to wait for the all clear to officially hit the gym.

They’re in Trent’s backyard an hour later, bellies full of pizza and playing a ridiculously competitive game of cornhole. Trent and Jason have already been eliminated, and they watch as Ray and Sonny team up against Brock and Clay for the winner-takes-all death match.

It’s close the whole way through, but Clay ultimately makes the winning throw, crowing triumphantly as his bag soars through the air and lands perfectly in the hole on the board across the way.

Sonny is not impressed. “He’s only got one good arm! Of course he’s gonna win.”

“What?” Clay laughs incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense. This is a handicap, not an advantage.” He waves his newly-freed left arm in Sonny’s direction.

“No, you’ve been strengthening the right one up, only using it all the time. It’s like a Hulk arm now.”

“You are so full of shit, Sonny.”

“Just sounds like a sore loser to me,” Jason chimes in.

As soon as the word “loser” gets thrown around, things are bound to devolve pretty quickly.

Clay’s the one who starts it. He grabs a cornhole bag from the ground and pelts Sonny with it, cackling as he runs for cover behind the large oak in the corner of the yard before the Texan has a chance to retaliate. 

Chaos erupts as they all join in, chasing and attacking each other like little kids on the playground. Cerberus joins the fray, leaping to bite the bags out of the air before any of them have a chance to hit Brock, which really doesn’t seem like a fair advantage. Getting hit smarts like a bitch and they’re all bound to walk away with bruises, but Trent’s having too much fun to care.

They eventually fall into an exhausted calm, Sonny declaring himself the Cornhole Dodgeball Champion. No one bothers to argue with him.

Trent heads inside to refill the cooler with drinks and grab some supplies for making s’mores. It may be cheesy as can be, but he really doesn’t care. He’s been looking forward to it all day.

The sun is just beginning to touch the horizon when he returns to the yard, and the glow of the fire is becoming brighter as the sky darkens around them. Jason and Sonny have started up a new game, with the kind of precision and intensity they normally only show down range, and Ray and Brock are sitting on a bench chatting about paint colors for RJ’s room. Across the fire pit from them, Clay is folded into a beach chair, looking very intently at his lap. He looks relaxed and comfortable, and when Trent gets closer he sees that he’s holding a ripped cornhole bag. He’s meticulously moving the small plastic beads from one hand to the other. Trent shoots him a questioning look as he sets the cooler down.

Clay blushes and gives a bit of a shrug before explaining. “I used to count. To keep my mind occupied I guess. Old habits…”

Trent nods. That’s how they’ve been getting most of their information about Clay’s time away. In casual bits and pieces. They’re usually pretty benign, not delving into any of the abuse he suffered. But Trent is thankful for them and gleans as much as he can to form a more complete picture. Clay’s been offering them up more freely recently, almost like he’s testing the waters. Trent’s not sure if he’s testing it for himself or for the guys, so he makes sure to always be open, receptive and non-judgmental.

“You okay?” he asks, when he realizes the younger man has shifted right back into counting the beads.

Clay’s focus is broken again and he looks up with a small, content smile. “Yeah,” he answers, holding up the ripped bag. “I think someone got a little carried away.” He nods to indicate Cerberus, who lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out on the grass in front of him.

Trent settles into the chair next to him, which prompts Cerb to come over for some belly rubs since Clay is otherwise occupied, his focus shifted back to the beads again. Trent watches him for a minute, thankful for his relaxed posture, the counting seeming to soothe him. He thinks back to his own SERE training and the long stretches of hours he was left alone as part of that role-playing scenario. It was incredibly lonely, amplified by the tension of wondering when the next shoe would drop. The idea of Spenser living that out in reality, for four long months, is hard to imagine. 

Once Clay makes it through all the beads he shoves them back into the bag, breaking the spell. Trent is caught staring when he looks up, so he covers by asking about his wrist.

“Feels so weird,” he says, flexing it back and forth carefully. “Happy to be done with the cast though. Doc thinks there’s a good chance there won’t be any lasting issues.”

“That’s great.”

They sit in the quiet for a few minutes until they eventually get pulled into conversation with Ray and Brock. And when it’s finally dark, Jason and Sonny give up their game to join them.

Making the s’mores is fun, and Trent forgot how delicious they are. There’s a lightness in the air that’s been lacking from the team for a long time, and they’re all reveling in it. Jason pretends to sneak chocolate to Cerberus and Brock moves so quickly to try to stop him that he runs right into Ray’s roasting stick. He spends the next several minutes trying to pull the melty marshmallow out of his curls as they all tease him mercilessly.

“How was the op?” Clay eventually asks once the laughter has quieted.

It’s become the norm. Clay wants to know about each mission when they get home. He seems to thrive on hearing about the details, asking questions and trying to predict the moves they made and what the outcomes were. It’s like he’s living vicariously through them, and Trent sees it as a good sign. That he’s keeping his skills sharp in anticipation of a return to the job.

“It was good,” Jason says simply.

“Okay,” Clay drags out with a confused laugh, clearly waiting for more. “And?”

Trent refuses to coddle him. “It was hostage rescue,” he says, eyeing Clay cautiously.

It was their first hostage mission since getting him back, and they’d all felt the responsibility more deeply and personally because of it. Fortunately, it went much more smoothly than Clay’s had. Everything perfectly according to plan.

“An ambassador’s kids,” Ray says. “Two teen boys.”

If the topic bothers Clay, it doesn’t show. “Ransom?”

“Prisoner exchange,” Sonny chimes in. “They demanded the release of some high-value captives. It wasn’t going to happen, so…” he gestures to the team.

“Pretty basic operation they had going,” Jason says, comfortable now based on Clay’s relaxed reaction. “They were holed up in a warehouse, little protection. Think they’ve seen too many action movies. It was a piece of cake. We were in and out in less than five minutes.”

Trent laughs. “Those poor kids. They were sound asleep when we burst through that door, and we scared the hell out of them. Imagine waking up like that and the first thing you see is Sonny’s ugly mug.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sonny throws a marshmallow at him, which Trent tries and fails to catch in his mouth.

“Aww, it’s okay Sonny,” Ray teases. “We can’t all have Brock’s leading-man good looks and luscious locks.”

Brock preens, and earns a marshmallow to the face for it, setting off another round of teasing laughter.

“I used to imagine that,” Clay says when quiet has taken hold again. “Waking up and you guys being there. I had these full fantasies built up in my head. I’d hear a noise down the hall and think the door was gonna fly open any minute. Wouldn’t have cared whose face it was.”

Aside from some head nods, none of them say anything in reply. They’ve become used to the occasional bits of information and memories Clay offers, and nothing in it is accusatory. He’s simply sharing. And they’ve all already said what they need to say, offering their regrets and apologies.

They settle into a comfortable silence again, nursing their drinks and watching the fireflies and the flames flicker. Trent’s wandering mind starts to drift back to the fire on that fateful night, and he makes a new s’more to drag himself out of the memory, even though he’s had far too many already.

“Do you know what happened to them?” Clay eventually asks hesitantly.

“Gonna need more than that,” Jason prods.

“The other people who were being held. With me.”

Trent is thrown by the question. He glances around the circle.

Jason clears his throat. “The Thai police went in and got them.”

Clay nods, seeming satisfied. But that only lasts for a minute. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, it was part of the debrief. Got them all out. Twelve, I think.”

“And the place before that?”

“They tracked it down too. Probably need to ask Mandy for details.”

“Is there someone you want to find?” Trent asks, ashamed that he never considered that there may have been relationships born out of what Clay went through. Friendships even. 

“No, never saw anyone else. I was always alone. But I heard them sometimes. Nothing that I’d be able to use to identify someone, just…” A dark cloud creeps across his eyes as his voice fades out.

He doesn’t stay trapped in the memory for long though, and the fog clears pretty quickly. “If you guys hadn’t come to get me – what do you think would have happened to them?”

Ray leans forward on the bench, arms on his knees. “Hopefully they’d have gotten out somehow. There are people trying. The CIA found you through facial rec.”

“They’d still be there,” Clay dismisses with a shake of his head. “Just like all the others being trafficked around the world who are in the same situation. But they don’t have the military coming for them. Why did I deserve to be rescued?”

“Not sure it’s about deserving,” Brock says quietly, hands gliding smoothly over the hair on Cerberus’s back. The dog looks completely zenned out where he’s sprawled at his handler’s feet, tail thumping sluggishly and eyes just barely cracked open.

“The world sucks, brother.” Ray says. “We’d love to help everyone, but that’s just not the way it works. You know that well enough.”

It’s something they’ve all had to learn to accept as operators. Not just that you can’t help everyone, but that you aren’t around for the follow through for those you are able to help. In the early days of his career, Trent used to think about the people he rescued a lot. He’d wonder if they’d been reunited with their loved ones. Or how their physical recoveries were going. Whether they even survived. He tried a few times to follow up on people but quickly realized that wasn’t practical. And it wasn’t encouraged. The expectation is that they do their job and move on. He thinks that’s probably a good thing in the long run, but sometimes it’s hard.

“The important thing is, we got them out,” Jason says.

“No you didn’t,” Clay says. “You rescued me, not them.”

“Okay,” Jason concedes, running his hand through his hair. “I’m not going to apologize for what we did to get you back.”

“No, I know,” Clay rushes to clarify. “Believe me, I’m glad you came. But you came for me, not them. If I hadn’t been there, would anyone have ever come? What if they have families who were wondering what happened to them? Parents or even children, maybe. It’s not right.”

“Well, we can all agree there.”

“We were all the same. It didn’t matter who I was or what I’d done. How many languages I speak or how many kills I have. We were all property that could be bought and sold. The only difference is I had you guys. The Navy and CIA.”

Clay’s tone is tinged with frustration, but not anger, and not directed at them. “I need to do something about it.”

“What does that mean?” Sonny asks, picking at the stick in his hand.

“It means I can’t sit around pretending I don’t realize what’s happening anymore.”

Trent’s struck by the intensity and determination in Clay’s voice when he says it. He knows there’s always been a bit of restless political ambition in their youngest team member. That he’s not entirely comfortable being the tip of the spear. And that maybe he wants to have more freedom to direct it. It’s not something Trent’s ever been interested in for himself, but he’s been able to see it clearly in Clay. And he can understand why he’d want to try to help people who find themselves in the same awful situation he became trapped in. But Trent’s not sure what that would look like.

“What can you do?”

“I don’t know,” Clay answers after a long pause. It isn’t said with defeat or resignation, or even frustration this time. Instead, it carries an optimistic, contemplative quality. Like it’s a riddle he’s working to unravel.


End file.
